Nightmare
by Provocative Envy
Summary: IN-PROGRESS: A broken time turner shouldn't have sent me back so far. It was unprecedented. Stepping on it-smashing it-nothing should have happened. At most, I should have lost a week. At worst, I should have disappeared altogether. I shouldn't have traveled back fifty-two years; half a bloody century. This should not have happened. HG/TR.
1. Prologue

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Hello, again! I know I just recently finished _Difficult_, but I've been thinking about writing some Tomione for the last couple of months, and finally feel confident that I have an outline I can work with. This is a time travel fic—no apologies for that, haha—and is entirely set in 1944. It's first-person Hermione, for the most part, but after the prologue, most chapters will contain a diary entry written by Tom Riddle.

I've been writing Dramione for something like seven years now, and am really, really excited to branch out a little bit and explore a different side of Hermione. And even though I adore Draco—to an unhealthy degree, seriously—I'm looking forward to humanizing a young, slightly less evil Dark Lord. (As much as he can be, at least. Let's not kid ourselves.) I should mention that I'm going to make every effort to write this as realistically as possible—I dislike out-of-character Hermione, and as a result there will be a fair bit of angst throughout the story. (I've said it before, but—I effing love angst.) This will also be written a bit differently than my previous stuff; I'm experimenting with tone, and there's a very specific sort of feeling I'm aiming for, so hopefully I manage to hit it. We'll just see how it goes, haha.

Anyway! This story will more than likely be quite long, and I'll try to update weekly. It's rated 'M' for a reason. I'm posting the prologue now (it's a bit short) and will probably be finished editing the first chapter sometime in the next few days. Enjoy!

OOO

**PROLOGUE**

_September 1, 1944_

I was fucked.

Brutally fucked.

Stupidly fucked.

The kind of fucked that has no discernible beginning or end, because everything that could possibly go wrong _does_—all at once, without any warning at all; a burgeoning, catastrophic cluster of chaos and misery and absolute disaster.

"You will, of course, need to be Sorted, but we can do that in the Headmaster's office before dinner, no need to put you up front with the firsties—"

Someone was talking to me. Someone was saying something. I should listen. I should be listening—paying attention—trying to make sense of what was happening.

As if that were even remotely fucking possible.

"—just can't believe Albus didn't say something sooner about his _niece_—his own flesh and blood—coming to Hogwarts for her final year of school, all the way from France. _Most_ irresponsible of him—"

The man in front of me—what was his name? Surely he'd told me his name. He must have. He had. I knew him. We'd met—before. And his name—it was generic. Friendly. Unassuming. It had made me think, briefly, of home, and my gut had twisted spasmodically in response. It had been painful.

"—you worry about a thing, Miss Granger, we'll get everything handled. You'll be settled in and feeling right as rain before you can say Slytherin—"

_Slytherin_. Why would I want to say that? Unless—yes, of course, he was the Slytherin Head of House, that was who he was, and he was taking me somewhere, rather optimistically, his gait long and steady and confident—he seemed almost blissfully unaware of my silence, as if he was _used_ to chattering happily about nothing important while other people were forced to listen.

"Speaking of, I do dearly hope, Miss Granger, that our tatty old hat gives Slytherin a fair shot at you during your Sorting. Albus Dumbledore's niece would be quite the coup for us, quite the coup, indeed. And we've had such good luck the last couple of years, what with Tom—oh, you don't know him, but you will, Miss Granger, you most certainly will—making Head Boy and dear, dear Abraxas—Malfoy, you understand—winning the Quidditch Cup for us, really, it's a wonderful time to be a snake, that's what everyone's saying—"

I was then being propelled down an achingly familiar hallway with a stone gargoyle standing at attention near the center. I felt my throat constrict tightly.

"Professor Slughorn," I suddenly burst out, skidding to a desperate, cloying halt. "Where are you taking me?"

I knew, though, of course I fucking knew—I just needed a moment, I needed to breathe, I needed to collect myself and my stupid, _stupid_ fucking emotions and remember that I could not afford to act as if something was dreadfully, horribly wrong. I needed to breathe. I needed to remember who I was and where I was and, most importantly, _when_ I was. I needed—I needed space. I needed a moment.

Just one fucking moment.

"Oh, silly me—my sincerest apologies, Miss Granger, I forgot entirely that you're most unfamiliar with the—shall we say—_quirks_ of our castle. This is how we get to the Headmaster's office. It's a handy thing—"

He began to explain, in surprising detail, everything I already knew, and I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to ignore the telltale throb of anxiety pulsing through my body. How was I going to do this? How was I going to keep this up? Every corner—every corridor—every square inch of this gigantic fucking castle—was full of memories. I had loved it here. I had made friends here, and I had thrived here, and I'd bloody well grown up here. How was I going to pretend that I didn't know where I was? How was I going to act like nothing was wrong?

"—just go right on in, then, Headmaster Dippet should be along shortly, and then we'll get you Sorted, Miss Granger, although I imagine you'd like to wait for your uncle, eh? Nothing like family to make things seem a bit easier, isn't that the truth—"

_Family_. The word sounded dirty, even in my head. I didn't have any family, not anymore. Dumbledore, as kind as was being, was not my family. He was not the same. He was younger, less trusting, the omnipresent twinkle in his eye the only remnant of the Dumbledore that _I _knew. But he was not the same. Nothing was the same.

"How does the—the Sorting, you called it? Yes? How does it work?" I heard myself ask, gratefully taking the seat that Slughorn had gestured for me to sit in.

"Oh, I'm _so_ glad you asked, Miss Granger, it's quite a fun bit of magic, actually—"

My mind glazed over as he talked, and I looked around the Headmaster's office, my eyes flitting from one small detail to the next, the overwhelming feeling of _wrongness_ becoming almost too much to bear—because this was not Dumbledore's sanctuary. This was not what I was used to. There were no delicate brass instruments whirring and clacking on the shelves. There was no magically replenishing bowl of lemon drops. There was no sense of warmth, or peace, or understanding.

And I didn't belong there.

A broken time turner shouldn't have sent me back so far. It was unprecedented. Stepping on it—smashing it—nothing should have happened. At most, I should have lost a week. At worst, I should have disappeared altogether. I shouldn't have traveled back fifty-two years; half a bloody century. I shouldn't be there, sitting in a comfortably appointed armchair, waiting to be sorted by the hat that had already sorted me once before.

This should not have happened.

But I'd done the right thing, hadn't I? Bellatrix Lestrange would have used it to save Voldemort. She would have used it to stop Harry. She would have succeeded. And so when she'd reached for me, for the spindly gold hourglass hanging around my neck, I'd done the only thing I could think of—I'd yanked it off and thrown it to the ground and stepped down, hard. Maybe too hard. Maybe that was what had gone wrong. Maybe something about the angle of my foot—

No.

This should not have happened.

There weren't any rational explanations. Dumbledore had already told me that.

"Ah, here they are, Miss Granger—"

I watched, in a daze, as a seemingly ancient Armando Dippet trudged wearily towards me, his hand outstretched, a cordial greeting leaving his lips. I recognized him, of course. His portrait had hung in Dumbledore's office—_this_ office. I grimaced.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, Miss Granger," Dippet was saying to me. "I still can't believe that Albus was hiding a niece from us for all this time, but he's always been mysterious, hasn't he, Horace? We are, of course, delighted to have you."

"Thank you," I managed to mumble, studying my shoes—black leather loafers, part of the required school uniform of 1944. They were uncomfortably tight.

"Hermione has always wanted to attend Hogwarts, Armando," Dumbledore said archly, throwing me a sharp glance. "She's quite brilliant. I'm sure she'll do wonderfully."

"Yes, well, if she's anything like her uncle…" Slughorn put in, grinning.

"Shall we get on with it, then?" Dippet asked, turning towards a small mahogany cabinet next to his desk. "We don't want to be late for the feast."

Slowly, almost reverently, he tugged open the cabinet door and removed a stubby, dusty stool with a hat perched on top. The Sorting Hat. Ratty and dirty and humble—it was ugly, almost unsanitary, and I remembered, vividly, how horrified I'd been as a first-year when I'd realized that I was meant to put it on my head. Now, though, it didn't disgust me. It made my heart hurt.

"Come, Miss Granger, this will only take a moment," Dippet said kindly, motioning me forward.

I got to my feet, marveling at the fact that my muscles were working at all, and walked towards him. He picked up the hat, and I flinched, thinking of Professor McGonagall doing the exact same thing, all those years ago—and then I turned around quickly, plopping down on the stool before anyone could notice my expression. Almost immediately, I felt the soft, worn weight of the hat being placed on my head.

_Ah, a Gryffindor_,the Sorting Hat said, its androgynous, squeaky clean voice bouncing around my skull.

_Can we just get this over with? _I pleaded internally. _We both know where I belong_.

_Hmmm. You're brave, that's more than clear. Bright, too. But you don't belong in Gryffindor, do you? No, I don't think that you do._

_ What? _I demanded, stunned. _Of course I do_.

_You're a Gryffindor, Miss Granger, there's no doubt about that. But that isn't where you belong. Not now, at least. I think you'd do better elsewhere._

_ Ravenclaw?_ I suggested, dread settling like a tight, toxic vice around my stomach.

_No_, the hat mused thoughtfully. _Not there, either. There's somewhere else you should go, dearie. _

_ You're insane_, I sputtered. _Absolutely bloody insane. I'm a Gryffindor. That's where I should go._

_ You have so much potential, Miss Granger. So much to accomplish. You can't do any of it in Gryffindor._

_ I don't bloody well care!_ I argued furiously. _I belong in Gryffindor!_

_ I think not_, was all it said before going suspiciously quiet.

And then—

"SLYTHERIN!" the hat shouted abruptly.

I shut my eyes. I didn't want to open them. This could not be happening. This was not happening. I was having a nightmare, I had them all the time, this wasn't unusual—a nightmare, yes, just a fucking nightmare, and I was going to wake up, and everything was going to be normal, and it was going to be 1996, and I wouldn't be here, I wouldn't be here, I wouldn't be pretending to be Albus Dumbledore's ridiculous recluse of a niece, I wouldn't have just been sorted into fucking _Slytherin_, I wouldn't—

I wouldn't be here.

I wasn't supposed to be here. This should not have happened. This should not be happening.

And I was fucked.

So fucked.

"Oh, _marvelous_!" Slughorn exclaimed. I heard him clap his hands together.

"Well, how about that, Albus," Dippet said, sounding heartily amused. "A Slytherin. From your family. How utterly remarkable."

"Indeed," Dumbledore replied wryly. "Although Hermione is, of course, quite the remarkable young woman."

I swallowed, opening my eyes. No one had spoken to me yet.

"She's shocked, Albus," Dippet observed genially. "Were you not expecting Slytherin, Miss Granger?"

I had to answer. They would find it strange if I didn't answer. My mouth was dry.

"I—ah—I _am_ a little surprised," I replied, clutching at the sleeves of my regulation navy cardigan. "We've never had a Slytherin in the family before, have we, Uncle Albus?"

He regarded me shrewdly for a long, prickly second.

"No, Hermione, we haven't," he finally said with a forced chuckle. "But you'll be a lovely addition, I'm sure. They're lucky to have you."

Dippet gave Dumbledore a congratulatory pat on the back.

"We should get going," Slughorn said cheerfully. "The feast is going to start soon! I'd be more than happy to escort you to dinner, Miss Granger, help you get your bearings. I'll introduce you to Tom, our Head Boy. He'll make sure you know where everything is, and—"

He went on and on and on as we exited the Headmaster's office. I couldn't focus. I couldn't stand to focus. My only comfort when Dumbledore had told me I'd be going back to Hogwarts was that I would at least be home, in Gryffindor Tower, with its cozy burgundy common room and reassuringly _normal_ atmosphere. But now I was being tossed into a literal snake pit. It wasn't fair. I wasn't like them. I wasn't sneaky, and I wasn't dishonest, and I wasn't selfish. How was I going to survive?

"This is the Great Hall, Miss Granger," Slughorn was saying loudly, steering me in the direction of the Slytherin table. I almost jerked backwards as I caught sight of the sea of green and silver—this wasn't home. This wasn't right. This wasn't where I belonged.

We stopped next to someone. A boy. Slughorn tapped him on the shoulder, urging him to stand up and introduce himself. He did. But I still couldn't concentrate. I was too distracted by the shiny gold badge pinned to his sweater vest—cable-knit navy, just like mine. This was the Head Boy. Why did I suddenly feel nervous? Who was he? Tom. That's what he'd been called. Tom, the Slytherin Head Boy.

He was tall. Tall and broad-shouldered and slender, with absolutely beautiful skin—so pale it was practically incandescent, his cheeks tinged with just the faintest hint of pink. He had thick black hair, parted at the side, and large, eerily inexpressive dark eyes. A strong jaw, square chin, and thin red lips. He was handsome. He was smiling at me. It didn't fit his face.

"I'm sorry," I stammered quietly, clearing my throat. "I didn't catch your name. There's been quite a lot to take in."

"Tom Riddle," the boy repeated politely, holding out his hand. "I'm Head Boy this year. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger."

I stared at him, transfixed, my brain melting into something uncharacteristically incapable.

Tom Riddle.

Tom Riddle.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

I was fucked.

Oh, my God, was I fucked.

OOO


	2. I

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I couldn't resist putting a Malfoy in this. The entire family is just ridiculously alluring. Ugh. WHY ARE YOU FICTIONAL.

But anyway. This is _technically_ a continuation of the prologue, but written much differently—Hermione actually manages to interact with people, and there's less introspection. I'm using this chapter almost entirely as a vehicle to set the stage for Hermione's 1944 life, so it isn't _terribly_ exciting. But…enjoy! I'll be updating again within the week.

OOO

**CHAPTER ONE**

_September 1, 1944_

Tom Riddle was unnervingly pleasant.

He chatted courteously to me throughout dinner, his voice low and deep and soothing, and introduced me in a rather perfunctory fashion to the rest of the seventh-year Slytherins. He was well-spoken and articulate, with confident mannerisms and an easy, boyish grin. He was very popular—it wasn't difficult to guess why.

"Abraxas, say hello to Professor Dumbledore's niece," Riddle was saying to someone. "She's been sorted into Slytherin."

A tall boy with shaggy blond hair glanced up at us, obviously impatient, before blinking.

"Ah—didn't realize Dumbledore had a niece," he said, swallowing thickly. "Nice to meet you. I'm Abraxas. Abraxas Malfoy. I play quidditch."

I had barely managed not to gasp, however, as I saw what appeared to be a bigger, burlier, less refined version of Draco Malfoy sitting in front of me. He had the same pale skin, and the same pointed, aristocratic features, with perfectly straight white teeth and full pink lips—but this particular Malfoy's nose was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken one too many times, and he was scruffy, his jaw unshaven, a faded purple bruise lingering carelessly over one cheekbone. And his eyes—the very same piercing grey as his grandson's—were disarmingly gentle.

"Hermione Granger," I replied, feeling faint. "I…don't play quidditch."

Silence. Awkward, disbelieving silence. And then—

Malfoy threw his head back and roared with laughter, slamming his fist down on the table with a jarring, startling thud.

"I should hope not," he said, throwing a devastating wink in my direction. "Your face is much too pretty to risk a stray bludger."

I was speechless. A _Malfoy_ was flirting with me. A _Malfoy_ was being nice to me. This was not real. This could not fucking be real.

"Oh, don't make the poor girl blush, Abraxas," a new voice interjected. I swung my gaze to the left, only to see a sleek, slender boy with closely cropped black hair elbowing Malfoy playfully in the ribs.

"I'm hardly blushing," I felt compelled to point out.

The dark-haired boy turned his attention to me.

"Edmond Lestrange," he said, holding out his hand over a platter of roast potatoes. "I didn't catch your name, but did I hear that you're Dumbledore's niece?"

_Lestrange_. I tasted bile, it was unstoppable, unthinkable—_Lestrange_, _Lestrange_, there had been screaming, so much screaming, _my_ screaming, shrill and hoarse and so much fucking screaming, and the floor had been cold and hard, sticky with blood, _my_ blood, filthy blood, dirty blood, _mudblood_, that's what they had said, over and over and over, mudblood mudblood mudblood, does it hurt yet, tell us it fucking hurts, it has to fucking hurt—

I resolutely lifted my chin.

"Hermione Granger," I said, taking his hand and hoping my disgust wasn't evident as I watched him place a wet, open-mouthed kiss across my knuckles. His breath was nauseatingly warm. "And yes, Albus Dumbledore is my uncle."

"Can't believe you were sorted into Slytherin," Lestrange remarked casually, releasing my hand. I forced myself not to wipe it on the tablecloth. "Bloody brilliant, isn't it, Tom? Bet Dumbledore's furious."

I wrinkled my nose.

"Why would he be furious?" I asked, puzzled.

Malfoy chuckled and took a sloppy swig of pumpkin juice.

"'cause he fucking hates us," he said, shrugging.

"_Language_, Malfoy," Riddle snapped, clearly annoyed.

"Why would my uncle hate you?" I pressed. They had to think I was one of them. They couldn't get suspicious. I had to pretend. I had to be convincing.

Malfoy and Lestrange both glanced towards Riddle, as if waiting for something; when he nodded, just once, they turned back to me.

"Oh, he just has it out for Slytherins, love," Malfoy replied, waving a huge hand dismissively through the air. His fingernails, I noticed, were blunt-cut and dirty. "He's always trying to blame us for things. No offense, I know he's family, but he's a bit of a prick about it."

Lestrange sniggered.

"You shouldn't call teachers names like that, Malfoy," Riddle instructed, cutting his chicken into precise, bite-sized pieces. "Especially not in front of a new student. She might get the wrong impression."

There was a moment of bizarrely charged silence as the two boys watched Riddle eat, their expressions guarded.

"Of course Tom's right," Lestrange said abruptly. "We wouldn't want Miss Granger to think that we don't like her uncle."

"Besides," Malfoy added around a mouthful of pudding, "maybe he'll be nice to us now that she's here."

Next to me, Riddle sneered.

"I wouldn't count on it," he murmured, tapping his fingers against the table.

I furrowed my brow.

"I don't understand. He doesn't like you because you're Slytherins?"

"There were some accidents a couple of years ago," Lestrange explained, staring down at his peas, refusing to look up. "Bad ones. He suspected us, for whatever reason, and if it hadn't been for Tom, we probably would have been blamed."

I absorbed this for a minute.

"Accidents?" I asked carefully.

I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Riddle glower at Lestrange.

"Yeah. Some stupid half-breed had a pet Acromantula, if you can even imagine, and set it loose in the castle. It killed a muggle-born. The Ministry made quite the big deal about it at the time."

I visibly recoiled. I knew the stupid half-breed. I knew the muggle-born. I even knew the Acromantula. How was I going to keep this up? How long could I sit here, with them, and act as if nothing was wrong?

"That's awful," I grimaced. "And Uncle Albus thought the three of you had something to do with it? How preposterous."

"Oh, don't worry about it, love," Malfoy said easily, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head, flexing his biceps in the process. "He'll never be able to prove anything, even if it was—"

"_Abraxas_," Riddle hissed, spearing him with a glare.

And there it was again—silence, tense and thick and cold, as the two boys stared at Riddle, their eyes wary. How did no one else see this?

"What Abraxas means, Miss Granger," Riddle clarified, "is that your uncle favors his own house, Gryffindor, over the rest of us. He was just overeager to blame the accident on some Slytherins. It's perfectly normal here at Hogwarts. Nothing to worry about."

I took a sip of water, meeting Riddle's searching, curious gaze. But—no. No. He could not be interested in me. I could not let him be interested in me. What had Dumbledore said? Blend in. Blend in seamlessly, effortlessly, until he figured out how to get me home. Riddle could not be interested in me. He could _not_.

"I—I see," I said, quickly making up my mind and turning back towards Malfoy with a shy, calculated quirk of my lips. "Abraxas, was it? Yes? It seems there's so much I need to learn about how things work around here. I feel _terribly_ lost."

Malfoy's pretty grey eyes widened for a fraction of a second.

"Well, we can't have that, now can we?" he drawled, placing his large, muscular forearms on the table and leaning forward. "Don't worry, love, I'll make sure you don't stay lost."

"That's awfully generous of you," I replied, biting my lip.

"Something tells me it'll be my pleasure, sweetheart," Malfoy said, smirking.

Lestrange grunted loudly.

"Yeah it will, 'cause from what _I_ hear, it _certainly_ won't be hers," he laughed, ducking when Malfoy turned to him with a snarl.

"Fucking hell, Lestrange, why do you always have to ruin everything?"

"I don't ruin _everything_, you great lumbering prat—"

Riddle watched the two boys bicker with what could only be described as disdain. Weren't they supposed to be his friends?

"Stop it, Lestrange," he ordered quietly. "You're embarrassing Miss Granger."

This was patently false, but no one bothered to argue.

"Sorry," Lestrange mumbled, fiddling with his tie. "I didn't mean to embarrass you, Miss Granger. I was just having a bit of fun."

I clenched my hands into frantic, uncomfortable fists.

"It's fine," I said brightly. "Really. And, please, call me Hermione."

Lestrange flashed me a grateful grin; my stomach twisted.

"Hermione, then."

"Oi!" Malfoy put in, pouting. "What about me, love? What do I get to call you?"

I giggled, hating every last inflection of femininity I was being forced to project.

"_You_ can continue to call me Miss Granger," I replied pertly. "I've decided I rather like the sound of it, coming from you."

Before Malfoy could respond, Riddle let out an exasperated sigh.

"Miss Granger," he said wryly. "Your uncle appears to be trying very hard to get your attention."

I whirled around to scan the Head Table, only to find Dumbledore maneuvering out of his seat and signaling for me to follow him.

"Looks like I'm cutting dinner short," I said to Malfoy, getting to my feet. I was surprised when all three boys immediately stood up.

"Please, let one of us escort you out," Riddle offered, holding out his arm. "You can't possibly know where you're going yet."

I snorted softly.

"Oh, don't be silly," I said, smoothing down the front of my skirt. "Uncle Albus is just out there. I'm quite sure I can make it to the door without directions."

Malfoy's lips twitched; Riddle, though, looked at me appraisingly.

"Of course you can," he replied, his tone polite.

But I felt his eyes following me, dark and flashing and ominous, as I slowly made my way to the entrance hall.

It made me exceedingly nervous.

OOO

"Tea, Miss Granger?"

Dumbledore was hovering over an orange ceramic teapot as he waited for my response.

"No, thank you," I replied, settling into a comfortable, chintz-covered armchair. His office was not particularly large, but it was cozy and warm, with an enormous brick fireplace and an entire wall of shelves stuffed with books. Several spindly brass instruments sat on his desk, humming intermittently. They were familiar. They made me want to cry.

"How was dinner?" he asked, sitting across from me.

I paused.

"Illuminating," I said shortly.

"In what way?"

"I met Abraxas Malfoy, Edmond Lestrange, and Tom Riddle."

He took a long, measured sip of tea, his eyes narrowed.

"I see."

"Malfoy seems harmless enough, but Lestrange is…slimy. I don't like him," I elaborated, picking at my cuticles.

"And your opinion of young Mr. Riddle?"

"Honestly? He's creepy," I replied. "He has this strange…_control_ over everyone—it's unsettling."

Dumbledore had no idea that I already knew who Tom Riddle was. He had no idea that I knew his future, knew what he'd do later on, knew what he was capable of. He couldn't know. I couldn't risk it.

"Mr. Riddle is very popular with the other students," he said carefully, his expression thoughtful. "He's a particular favorite of Headmaster Dippet's, as well. I would urge you to—for lack of a better word—_hide _your distaste, at least for the time being. The Slytherins worship him, and you _are_ now a Slytherin, Miss Granger."

I nodded sharply.

"Don't remind me," I muttered, frowning. "I should _not_ be a Slytherin."

He studied me intently over the rim of his spectacles.

"What did the hat say during your sorting?" he asked.

I sighed.

"It was frustrating," I answered, fidgeting. "It said that I _was_ a Gryffindor, but that I—I didn't belong there, _this time around_. That I had _so much to accomplish_, and I couldn't do it there. It was rather vague about the whole thing, actually."

"The Sorting Hat is a peculiar relic, Miss Granger," he said slowly, leaning back in his chair. "Its magical properties aren't fully understood—like everything here at Hogwarts, it guards its secrets very well—but it _does_ possess an uncanny…_knack_ for understanding circumstances beyond our control. If it believes you have a purpose here, and that that purpose is best served in Slytherin, perhaps you shouldn't be so quick to dismiss it."

I gritted my teeth. _Purpose_? Surely he wasn't serious.

"I thought we agreed that my presence here was nothing more than a disastrous accident," I replied crossly. "That I should fit in as best as I can, not draw attention to myself, and preserve the timeline. Implying that there's a _purpose_ to my visit implies that I'm here to change something. That is not just impossible, Professor. It's _dangerous_."

"Well, yes. But that was _before_."

What the bloody fuck?

"_Before_," I echoed, nonplussed.

"Yes. Before the Sorting Hat made it known that there is, in fact, a _reason_ you were sent back to us," he clarified, his sky blue eyes almost, but not quite, twinkling. I felt a pang in my chest at the sight.

"It's a hat," I said bluntly. "It may, technically speaking, be sentient, but it's still a _hat_, Professor."

Disappointment flashed across his face.

"You said, Miss Granger, that it acknowledged that you were a Gryffindor?"

"Well—yes," I admitted.

"So, it recognized you," he continued sagely. "Our _technically_ sentient hat recognized you, even though, _technically speaking_, it is 1944 and you have yet to even be born."

My lips parted, but no sound emerged.

"Is that correct, Miss Granger?" he asked, not unkindly.

I blinked rapidly.

"Yes, but—"

"Now, I know that meddling with time is a generally frowned-upon practice," he said, twirling the end of his beard. "And I'm not encouraging you to do any such thing, you understand. But…perhaps if we didn't refer to it as _meddling_—adjusting, maybe—yes, adjusting. That sounds much better, doesn't it?"

He'd gone mad. I was stuck fifty years in the past with a mad Albus Dumbledore and a sociopathic, entirely too handsome Tom Marvolo Riddle. Why was this happening?

"Sir, just to be clear—are you suggesting that I _change_ things, things that might adversely affect the timeline—the one you were so terribly eager for me to protect—while I'm stuck here?"

"Oh, I would never suggest that," he said congenially.

_Of course not_.

"Well, then. If that's all," I said, getting to my feet.

"Actually, Miss Granger," he said gravely, motioning for me to sit down again. "There is something else I need to discuss with you."

I slowly lowered myself back into the armchair.

"Do you know who Gellert Grindewald is?" he asked.

I pursed my lips.

"Yes."

"Then you know that he has quite a following around Europe."

"Yes."

"Gellert and I have a—a _history_, Miss Granger," he said, reaching for his teacup. He didn't pick it up. "Our association did not end well, and he has, for many years now, held quite a…grudge."

"A grudge," I repeated.

"Quite."

"I'm sorry, Professor, but what—"

"Gellert is familiar with my family, Miss Granger," he interrupted gently. "Word will undoubtedly reach him soon that my so-called niece is now attending Hogwarts. He will know that I do not have a niece."

My throat went dry.

"Why—why then, did you—" I stammered.

"Because you have an extraordinary secret, Miss Granger," he answered simply, earnestly. "Most extraordinary. And because of that, you are in a precarious position. Should the truth about you ever come out, there will be people—many, many people—who will want to study you. They will try very hard to understand how you came to be here, and they will want to harness that power for themselves. I'm sure I don't need to explain to you the allure of time travel."

My head began to ache.

"What—" I bleated, my voice cracking. "What are you trying to say, Professor?"

"I have some measure of credibility in our world, Miss Granger," he replied smoothly. "Because I have claimed you as my niece, people will be more inclined to accept oddities in your behavior. You will be reasonably safe from suspicion of any kind."

"So you're protecting me."

He wavered. I noticed.

"Trying to, at any rate."

"But what does Grindewald have to do with any of this?"

He sighed.

"As I mentioned, Gellert will hear of your existence and be aware that we are both lying," he said tiredly. "He might try to discover why. He might try to…find you."

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him that he couldn't be serious, he couldn't be fucking serious, because there was no possible way things were getting worse. There wasn't. There _was not_.

"Are you trying to tell me, Sir, that Gellert Grindewald is going to be after me?"

He shifted in his seat.

"I'm trying to tell you that he might be curious," he replied softly. "And that you should be careful, Miss Granger. There's a reason I wanted you at Hogwarts. He cannot get to you here."

I suddenly couldn't think. I needed to leave. I needed to get out. I could not be there, not anymore, and I could not handle one more fucking second of Albus Dumbledore's tactless imposition on my fragile sense of security. Did he really need to remind me to be _careful_? Did he really need to tell me that after seven years of fighting the darkest wizard in history, I had been tossed back in time, only to be mindlessly, stupidly targeted by his predecessor? I could not be there. I could not stay there. I could not think.

"Of course not," I ground out, jerkily standing up. "But—if you'll excuse me, Professor—I really should get to my common room. I'm quite tired. Today has been…taxing, to say the least, and I really—I should get some sleep. I should—I need to—I should go."

I was rambling, desperate, and he was studying me with a look of almost paralyzing sadness on his face.

"Of course, Miss Granger," he said graciously. "If I make any progress regarding your—unique condition, I will let you know."

"Thank you, Sir," I said, blindly turning towards the door and reaching for the handle. "I'll just—be off, then. Thank you."

And then I was in the hallway again, trembling, anxious, suffocating, I still couldn't fucking think—and Tom Riddle was there.

I gasped, astonished. Tom Riddle was leaning up against the wall opposite me, his hands thrust in his pockets, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt folded back over his forearms. His green Slytherin tie was knotted loosely at his throat, disappearing into the top of his navy blue sweater vest. He looked relaxed, unbothered, the long, lean lines of his body so gracefully arranged that I was struck, again, by how physically perfect he was. I felt an unwelcome thrum of awareness in my lower abdomen.

"Miss Granger," he said, quickly straightening and walking towards me.

"Hello," I replied dumbly, hyper-conscious of the rapidly dwindling space between us.

"I thought you might need an escort to the dungeons," he said. "I wasn't sure if Professor Slughorn had time to show you where the common room is, or how to get in."

I swallowed noisily.

"He didn't."

"Fantastic," he responded, starting down the hallway. I recognized, dimly, that I had no choice but to follow him. "I'll take you down through the entry hall, just so you have a point of reference. It's really not so hard to get around here, once you figure out the staircases."

"That's—that's good to know," I stuttered.

He kept up a constant stream of near-useless historical facts about the school as we made our way through the castle. His knowledge would have impressed me, had it come from anyone else, if only because it meant that he'd read _Hogwarts, A History_—not only read it, but basically memorized it, the endless litany of names and dates falling out of his mouth with practiced, deliberate ease. It was disconcerting.

"So," he said conversationally, breaking into my thoughts. "Why did you decide to come here for your last year of school? It's a bit unusual to transfer as a seventh-year."

I licked my lips.

"Grindewald has a strong presence in southern France," I replied, reciting the lie that Dumbledore had told me to tell. "I…wasn't safe anymore."

"You don't have a French accent, though," he observed, watching my face carefully. I felt my stomach clench. Why was he so interested?

"I only went to school there," I offered lightly. "My parents had a house in Devon. That's where I grew up."

Was I imagining the suspicious slant to his eyes? Was I just being paranoid?

"Of course," he demurred as we rounded a corner. "What was it like, growing up with Professor Dumbledore for an uncle? Fascinating, I bet."

He was asking too many questions. His tone might have been respectful, even curious, but he was asking too many questions. I cleared my throat.

"I didn't see very much of Uncle Albus, actually," I answered, squinting down the hallway to try and see how much farther we had to go to get to the dungeons. "He was quite busy with other things."

"So—the two of you aren't…close?" he prodded, his footsteps slowing.

Unease trickled down my spine.

"He's my uncle," I said cautiously. "We're close enough, I suppose."

He came to a stop, a strange expression on his face. My hands felt damp.

"Can I ask you something, Miss Granger?" he inquired, cocking his head to the side. I fought the urge to shudder.

"Of course."

He didn't hesitate.

"Why do you look so afraid of me?"

I froze. _What_? How did he know? How had he guessed? I'd been careful, so careful, I had a splintering, blistering headache from how fucking careful I'd been—so how could he have sensed, even a little bit, that I was petrified, terrified, not just of him, but of everything, everyone, of never getting back, never finding a way home, never feeling like I belonged, never again, because I wasn't supposed to be here, I wasn't supposed to fucking be here, I wasn't—

"Excuse me?" I blurted out, trying to ignore the way my pulse had sped up dangerously, irresponsibly, the way some small, never-used corner of my brain was screaming at me to run, run fast, run far, just—fucking _run_. Because he knew. He knew something was off, wrong, different about me—except he couldn't. He couldn't know. I couldn't let him know.

"Oh, I didn't mean to offend you," he said quickly, curving his lips into what might have passed for a reassuring smile. But I knew better. "It's just that you seem a bit jumpy, you understand. And you were so comfortable with Abraxas…"

"Why would I be afraid of you?" I demanded, feigning indignation, pushing past my fluttering, stuttering heartbeat. "I don't even know you, Riddle."

"Please," he said immediately, "call me Tom."

My tongue was rough and thick in my mouth.

"Tom, then."

"I just don't want us to get off to a bad start," he went on, almost apologetically. "We're quite a tight-knit group in Slytherin, and I'd hate to think that a member of my own house was uncomfortable around me."

I resisted the impulse to take a large step backwards.

"Oh, I'm not uncomfortable, Tom," I said awkwardly. "I'm just…adjusting."

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"Good. I'm glad we sorted this out, then."

"Me, too."

But he didn't look like he believed me.

And when he said goodnight after showing me to my room, his hand lingered for an inappropriately long moment on my shoulder as he patted my back.

_Such_ _a friendly gesture_, I thought bitterly.

Except it wasn't friendly, I would have been a fool to think it was, and I couldn't suppress my revulsion, not anymore. I was too tired. It was too much. Everything—all of it—it was just too fucking much.

So I shivered.

And he noticed.

OOO


	3. II

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Tom's first journal entry! This is actually really important—I wanted to showcase his disdain for basically all of humanity, but at the same time highlight his blossoming interest in Hermione. Not in a romantic way, obviously, but we'll get there eventually. Also—there will NOT be a sexual relationship between Abraxas Malfoy and Hermione, haha. She trusts and likes him because he happens to look exactly like someone familiar to her (Draco) and his personality reminds her of Ron. I want her to have something resembling a friend in the past, and his character will actually be super important towards the middle/end of this story. He has a purpose. Anyway. Enjoy! (Something exciting finally happens next chapter, I promise. And yes, I mean character development for Tom.)

OOO

**CHAPTER TWO**

_September 16, 1944_

_ The girl is not what she claims to be. _

_ She's utterly unremarkable, for the most part—she simpers at Malfoy, rolls her eyes at Dippet's senility, and seems to be only slightly above average academically. But despite her rather uninspiring normalcy, I can't fully escape the feeling that she has a secret. There are too many inconsistencies in her mannerisms, her recollection of the past—I doubt anyone else has noticed, considering the nauseating self-absorption that runs rampant in this school. But I most certainly have. And I cannot help but wonder—what is she hiding?_

_ She says that she spent six years living in France, yet her French is barely even passable. Nott, whose uselessness has, up until now, been unmatched, could hardly contain his laughter after he attempted to have a conversation with her. Malfoy, of course, could not abide the insult and used his fists to avenge the girl's honor. Honestly, it's as if he forgets he owns a wand—it's positively barbaric. I don't know why I bother trying to teach him anything; he's rarely worth the effort._

_ But—the girl._

_ She flinches whenever Lestrange touches her. I wasn't sure at first—I thought I might have been imagining her response—but, no. It's there. Today at breakfast, as he was passing her the salt, he brushed his fingers against her wrist and she looked…horrified. Which is odd—Lestrange has no discernible skills besides breathing. 'Harmless' is, perhaps, even too tame of an adjective for him—so why does she react like that? _

_ And then there is her relationship with Albus Dumbledore. Her uncle. He doesn't really give her any preferential treatment, not like he does the Gryffindors, which in of itself is surprising. Nepotism is, after all, a specialty of his. However—they do not speak to one another that often. And when they do, it's stilted and somewhat awkward, as if they might be strangers. I don't think she was lying when she told me they were not particularly close—which is curious, because I've always pegged Dumbledore as pathetically sentimental, the type who cherishes ridiculous things like family and bravery and honor and—well. His attitude towards the girl is unexpected, but could also be attributed to her turning out to be a Slytherin. He __**does**__ actively despise all of us. _

_ Another disparity._

_ She is a terrible Slytherin. The only person she speaks to with any degree of civility is Malfoy—and I pity her for that, frankly, since he's an absolute imbecile—but it is yet another aspect of her personality that makes little sense to me. She is not unintelligent. She holds herself very still in class, especially when questions are asked, as if she does not want to be noticed, as if she could not possibly know the correct answer—but when she's called on, she always does. _

_ I do not know what to make of her. _

_ I dislike mysteries._

_-TMR_

OOO

_I was dreaming._

_ It was a bright, beautiful autumn day, the trees on the grounds an aching, riotous mosaic of yellow and orange and red—the air was crisp, the sky was clear, and the breeze was laced with the mesmerizing, earthy scent of falling leaves and freshly chopped firewood. Ron and Harry were walking next to me, their voices melding together, practically indistinguishable. I was happy. I was comfortable. I was home._

_ "Slughorn's having another Halloween party this year," Harry was saying glumly. "He wants me to bring a date."_

_ Ron blanched and nervously loosened his tie._

_ "Why don't you just bring Hermione?"_

_ They both turned to me._

_ "Because I'm already invited," I said, rolling my eyes. "And I have to find my own date."_

_ Harry groaned._

_ "Who can I ask, 'Mione? Parvati won't go near me again, not after that disaster at the Yule Ball, and I don't think I can handle listening to Lavender talk for that many hours, not when I can barely keep from strangling her at breakfast."_

_ "You could always ask Ginny," I suggested, giggling as Ron's expression turned thunderous._

_ "Can't," Harry replied, shaking his head. "Going with Dean, isn't she? Though why he's invited in the first place, I've no bloody idea."_

_ I grinned at his reticence, reaching up to adjust my scarf, only to shriek in surprise as Harry tugged at the end of it, twirling it over my head so it was easier to unwind._

_ "What's so funny, 'Mione?" he teased, chuckling as Ron began to turn my shoulders, managing to catch my hair on the fluttering length of cashmere. "You still have to find a date, too, you know. Who're you going to ask? McLaggen? Zacharias Smith? Zabini, maybe? No! I've got it—Malfoy!"_

_ But Ron was still spinning me, round and round and round, and my mouth was half-covered by the scarf, masking my laughter, and I was getting dizzy, almost faint, as something warm and wonderful and perfectly familiar erupted in my veins—_

I started awake, gasping, and looked around frantically before realizing that yes, yes, I was still alone, and yes, yes, the hangings around my bed were still a deep, angry green, they weren't red, they weren't gold, this wasn't home—and I exhaled loudly, the sound tight, choked, wrenched forcefully from my lungs—and then I started to cry.

Because it wasn't fair. Because I wasn't supposed to be here, not in this oversized bed with the wrong-colored sheets—because I didn't belong here, surrounded by strangers and questions and a threatening, overly curious Tom Riddle. I didn't deserve this. It wasn't fair. I'd done everything right, my whole entire life. _This was not fair_.

I rubbed viciously at my eyes as they began to sting again. What was I going to do? Despite what Dumbledore had said, I knew that I couldn't stay here, in this time, indefinitely. I could change things, seemingly insignificant things. I could destroy the future. I could, with one wrong step, decimate my life and my friends' lives and everything we'd worked so hard to protect. And Dumbledore's obvious insinuation that a misunderstood mutation of fate had brought me here, for a very specific reason, wasn't just ludicrous.

It was reckless. It was irresponsible. It was fucking _stupid_.

And what if someone found out? What if Tom Riddle kept watching me with that all too thoughtful glint in his eye? What if he guessed? It would be a disaster if anyone discovered where—_when_—I was really from. It would only be worse if was him.

I settled back into bed, swiping at my cheeks with the back of my hand. It had been a month. An entire month since I'd woken up, confused and disoriented, with three broken ribs and a harrowing, unwavering sort of certainty that something wasn't right. I'd been so optimistic at first. I'd thought that Dumbledore would know how to get me back. I'd thought that he could fix it, fix everything, and I would be able to return, quickly, to my own time.

I'd thought wrong.

Rolling over, I buried my face in my pillow. This was impossible. I knew how time travel worked. I knew that a fifty-year jump backwards was serious in a way that I probably couldn't even wrap my head around. But I couldn't be bothered with that just then. I wanted to leave. I wanted to go _home. _I wanted to see Harry and Ron again. I wanted to be in a world where Voldemort was still dead—not sitting across from me at breakfast, looking altogether too handsome, asking probing, unnecessary questions—

Because I was sure that he suspected something. I'd gone out of my way to fit in, not draw attention to myself; I kept quiet in class, wrote purposefully mediocre essays, and let Abraxas Malfoy carry my books to the library. I was polite to everyone. I had even managed to get used to Edmond Lestrange. I was doing so well. I had been doing so well. Why, then, did Tom Riddle stare at me like I was a particularly irritating puzzle he was determined to solve?

Abruptly, the curtains around my four-poster were flung open. I blinked at the sudden onslaught of light.

"Hermione, you need to get up!"

I winced. Melania Macmillan was loathsome. Truly, horrifically loathsome. The only other female Slytherin seventh-year, she was sallow-skinned and chubby, with a shrill, slightly acerbic voice and a penchant for cruelty. She delighted in cataloguing my faults, sniffing in contempt whenever she saw me—I was far too skinny and _much_ too outspoken, my hair was horrid, my skin was pale—I avoided her whenever I could.

"Did you already shower?" I asked, heaving a sigh as I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

"Of course," she sneered haughtily, picking up a comb and running it through her lank black hair. "_I've_ been up for an hour. Not everyone wants to spend all day in bed."

"I was tired," I retorted defensively, heading for the bathroom.

"Why? Out late again?" she mocked sweetly.

I picked up my towel.

"I was _studying_," I ground out.

Her lip curled.

"Abraxas doesn't study, Hermione," she shot back. "Maybe if you kept your knickers on long enough around him to actually have a conversation, you would _know_ that and be able to come up with a better excuse."

I clenched my jaw.

"Why, Melania, I had no idea you were so interested in my knickers," I bit out, yanking open the bathroom door and turning to scowl at her.

"I don't know _why_ he's wasting his time with you," she snorted, picking up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. "He could do _so_ much better."

But before I could respond, for the hundredth time, that he was hardly _with me_, she had stalked out of the room.

"Vile, _vile_ girl," I huffed angrily, stripping out of my pajamas and stepping into the shower. I made sure the water was almost painfully hot.

But by the time I made my way to the common room, it was half past eight and most people had already left for breakfast. Abraxas Malfoy, however, was standing next to the fireplace, waiting patiently for me to emerge from the girls' dormitories.

"_There_ you are," he said, beaming. "Macmillan looked furious when she came out earlier. I got worried. Thought she might have finally hexed you, or locked you in a closet, or something equally nefarious."

I grimaced.

"She's awful," I complained, picking at a loose thread on my shirt. "I don't know why she hates me so much."

"She's just jealous, love," he said, waving me out of the common room. "She's jealous that you're beautiful and brilliant and funny, and she's a greasy little troll that no one likes."

I laughed, trying to ignore how hollow it sounded, and took his arm as we walked through the dungeons.

"Abraxas?"

"Yes?"

"Have I mentioned yet today how very much I adore you?"

His cheeks turned pink. I squeezed his wrist.

"First quidditch match is tomorrow," he said abruptly, holding open the door to the Great Hall. "Against Ravenclaw. Should be a slaughter. I'm not worried."

"That's good," I offered, following him towards the Slytherin table.

"Are you going to come and watch me?" he continued, glancing down at me.

I smiled at him. I almost meant it.

"Of course I am," I said reassuringly. "I wouldn't miss it for anything."

He shot me a lopsided grin, and my heart almost broke. Because he was so very much like Ron—he chewed with his mouth open and laughed too loudly at his own jokes and talked, endlessly, about nothing but quidditch. He jumped to conclusions, was quick to overreact, and had a wicked temper. He was _just like_ Ron. But I didn't let myself think about him. I didn't let myself think about any of them. It wasn't safe. I couldn't make comparisons. I couldn't be distracted. If I was—if I did—I would lose control. I had to forget them. I had to forget all of them. I had to remember that I wasn't the same person, not in 1944. I was fragile here.

Vulnerable.

And I could not think about them. I would not think about them. I had let myself have the dream that morning. I had let myself miss them, even if it was just for a moment. Just a moment. But it wouldn't happen again. It couldn't.

"Good," he said cheerfully. "You can sit with Riddle and Lestrange, they'll make sure Nott keeps his distance. Because if the bastard so much as _looks_ at you the wrong way, I'll beat him into a bloody fucking—"

I bit back a sigh.

"Abraxas," I interrupted gently. "You won't be beating anyone into anything."

He frowned.

"I don't know why you defend him, Hermione," he sulked, taking his seat and immediately reaching for a plate of bacon. "You heard the things he said about you."

"All he did was make a perfectly valid observation about how terrible my French is," I pointed out. "He was hardly _wrong_."

"Still," he said stubbornly. "He shouldn't have said anything."

"Who shouldn't have said anything?" Edmond Lestrange interjected, plopping down next to me and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Abraxas glared at him.

"_Nott_," he growled menacingly, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

Lestrange arched a quizzical brow in my direction.

"Is he really still on about that?" he asked.

"Unfortunately," I affirmed, trying hard not to squirm when he shifted in his seat and his thigh brushed my own.

"Can't imagine why," Lestrange mumbled, tearing into a muffin. "Your French is awful. We were all thinking it. He was just the only one dumb enough to laugh in front of Malfoy."

"I know," I said indifferently. "And it's fine, really. I know that I'm not very good with languages. It isn't like I was insulted."

"That's odd," Tom Riddle suddenly said from across the table. "Isn't Professor Dumbledore supposed to be a master linguist? I heard he speaks something like sixty different languages."

I met his gaze. I tried to catch my breath. I failed.

"Uncle Albus is a very accomplished wizard," I said carefully. "What does that have to do with me?"

"I just thought his affinity for languages might be a family trait, that's all. Clearly I'm mistaken. Your French really _is _abysmal."

Lestrange sniggered into his tea, and Abraxas immediately threw down his knife with a loud clang and a fiercely muttered expletive.

"That's fucking _it_!" he snarled, scowling at Lestrange. "You _will_ stop talking about her and her fucking French as if she isn't sitting right there, or I _will_ make sure that the entre rest of your life is bloody fucking _pointless_, yeah?"

I stared at him, mildly surprised. Only a few minutes earlier, I'd been brooding about how very much he reminded me of Ron. But his petulant outburst just then had had all the markings of a truly stupendous Draco Malfoy tantrum. And since Abraxas rarely behaved like the spoiled aristocrat he undoubtedly was, I found myself reacting inappropriately—I wasn't repulsed or upset or disappointed. I wasn't even annoyed.

No, I was _confused_.

Because this handsome blond giant with the soft eyes and the callused hands and the limited vocabulary—he wanted to _protect_ me. He didn't know what I was hiding. He never would. But still, still he wanted to protect me. The realization was staggering. I'd spent the two weeks since term had started wanting nothing more than to disappear. I'd been so afraid, all of the time, that Tom Riddle might guess, might wonder; I'd been so afraid of slipping up, saying the wrong thing, and my secret, and what it meant, what it represented, had defined me so absolutely that I hadn't stopped—not even once—to consider that there might be something else about me worth liking. Worth _protecting_.

"Calm down, Malfoy," Riddle commanded. He looked like he was trying exceptionally hard not to laugh. "And please, watch your language. I'd hate to have to take points."

I wondered if I was imagining the aggressive undercurrent to his words.

"Besides," Lestrange chortled, "shouldn't you, of all people, be a bit more concerned that your girlfriend can't speak French? I mean, you know where you're going after graduation, it isn't a—"

"_Shut up, Lestrange_," Malfoy hissed, a muscle throbbing in his jaw.

Riddle smirked. I furrowed my brow. _What_?

"Abraxas? What's wrong?" I asked, concerned.

He didn't look at me.

"Nothing. Edmond's confused. I don't care about your French, sweetheart," he mumbled, gulping down his pumpkin juice.

"Edmond's frequently confused," Riddle put in, sounding amused. It was chilling.

"Ah—yeah, I—I must've confused you with—ah—Avery," Lestrange stammered, scratching at his neck.

"I see," I said, nibbling at my toast. It was dry.

Abraxas lurched to his feet, grabbing my bag in the process.

"We should get to Herbology, love," he suggested nervously, tapping my shoulder. "I know how much you hate to be late."

Unsure of what to make of what had just transpired, I allowed him to lead me out of the Great Hall, leaving my breakfast untouched.

Riddle followed us.

OOO

_Thump_.

I let my forehead drop onto the smoothly worn wood of the library table. It was almost curfew. I needed to go back to the common room. I looked down at my watch. No. I still had a few minutes—surely there were some other books on time travel. Dumbledore couldn't be right. He just couldn't be. Someone had to know something. Someone had to have written something. They _had _to have.

My chair scraped back noisily.

I was aware of a distinct thrum of panic as I continued to peruse the shelves in the Restricted Section. The Hogwarts library had never failed me. Not even once. It wouldn't now. It couldn't. I needed it too much, too badly. Dumbledore's daily updates—such as they were—had not been reassuring. He had a contact in the Department of Mysteries, he said. He was looking into time turners. He knew a man in Germany, an old friend from school, who might have a theory—all hypothetical, of course. Nothing promising, unfortunately. Nothing concrete. I shouldn't worry myself over it. I shouldn't be bothered.

But how could he ask me to sit back and do nothing? Try nothing? I was ambitious by nature. I'd spent most of my life thinking about my future, planning for it. I was always prepared. I was always ready. I always knew the answers. But now…now, I was impotent. I was stuck. I had nowhere to go, nothing to look forward to, and I was expected to remain passive, feign disinterest, _move on_. It was fucking absurd. It was fucking ridiculous. It was—

Happening. It was happening. It was real. This was all real.

Not a dream.

Not a nightmare.

"Granger? Is that you?"

Tom Riddle. Of course. Of course it was Tom Riddle. I plastered a tired smile on my face and walked warily out of the stacks.

"Riddle," I said, nodding at him and heading towards my abandoned table.

"It's almost curfew," he observed, trailing after me.

"I know," I replied, picking up my bag. "I was just about to leave."

"Excellent," he said. "I can walk you down. I don't have rounds tonight."

I ducked my head, fighting a grimace. _Fantastic_.

"I know my way around now, Riddle," I said, exasperated. "You don't need to keep walking me everywhere."

"We're both going to the same place, Hermione," he pointed out, holding open the library door. "It would be rude of me not to offer you an escort."

I gritted my teeth.

"Right."

He led the way, walking slowly, his pace grating.

"You spend a lot of time in the library," he remarked nonchalantly, looking down at me. His eyelashes were long enough to cast shadows on his cheekbones when he blinked. "Did you like the library at your old school?"

"I've always liked libraries," I replied honestly. "I love books. They don't talk back."

He chuckled. It sounded like butter, rich and sensuous and—bad for me. I forced myself not to shudder.

"Hogwarts has a wonderful library," he mused, a smile playing around his lips. "Did—oh, I'm sorry, where was it you said you went before?"

_I didn't_, I wanted to scream. _I most definitely didn't fucking say where I went before_.

"Beauxbatons," I lied hastily. "And yes, it had a nice library. It was never very busy."

"Not a studious lot over there, then? I'm not surprised."

I hummed noncommittally. I wanted this conversation to be over.

"Were the books in English or French?"

"What?"

"At…Beauxbatons," he persisted. "Were the books in English or French?"

"Um—both," I answered desperately. "The library there was—ah—particularly well-stocked."

He spun towards me quickly, without any warning at all, and I stumbled. He caught me by the wrists, his expression unreadable.

"You didn't go to school in France, Hermione," he said softly, his fingernails digging into my hands. "You didn't go to Beauxbatons."

I stared up at him, slightly sick.

"What are you talking about?" I managed to ask, my voice cracking. He didn't release me. His skin felt like silk. "Of—of course I did."

He sneered. I felt my throat close.

"No, Hermione," he murmured, stepping closer. "You didn't."

He was trying to intimidate me. He was trying to scare me. He was guessing. He didn't know. He couldn't know. I'd been so careful. But his thumb was resting directly on the powder blue pulse point on the inside of my wrist. He could feel me. He could feel the way blood was pounding through my veins, unnaturally fast, unnaturally hard, and he could feel me tremble, feel me shake, feel me fall apart as his accusations reverberated in my head, in the hallway, so close to the truth, too close—and he was _standing_ too close, and I was so afraid, so fucking afraid, and he was still too close, he was always _too fucking close_—

"Don't be stupid, Riddle," I snarled, shoving him away. A warm, unwelcome bead of sweat slid down the back of my neck.

"I thought I told you to call me Tom, Hermione," he taunted.

"And I don't recall _asking_ you to call me Hermione, so I suppose that makes us even," I shot back, crossing my arms over my chest.

He smirked. I stiffened. And then he moved back.

"Of course," he replied slowly, reaching up to adjust his tie. "My sincerest apologies, Miss Granger. It's just, well, Abraxas is very taken with you, you know, and we're all a bit protective of him. He can be…impulsive. Gets into things without thinking them through. But I'm sorry if I upset you. It wasn't my intention."

My spine tingled. He was a brilliant liar.

"It's fine," I said stonily. "I understand completely."

He inclined his head.

"Back to the common room, then? We only have a few minutes until curfew."

I nodded tersely. We started walking.

"So, are you going to the quidditch game tomorrow?" he asked politely. "Abraxas is playing."

"I told him I was, yes," I snapped, increasing my pace. I just wanted to go to bed. I just wanted to be safe. I just wanted to be _away_ from Tom Riddle and his cold eyes and his warm hands and—I just wanted him _gone_.

"He'll be happy about that."

"Indeed."

For several minutes, our footsteps, light and quick, were the only sounds in the hallway.

"Why weren't you bothered by Nott's reaction to your French?" he asked suddenly. "You didn't seem to care at all that he was laughing at you."

"It's like I told Abraxas," I replied testily. _So many fucking questions_. "My French is dreadful. I'm used to being laughed at for it."

He looked over at me, bemused.

"How…curious."

I glanced at him sharply.

"What does that mean?" I demanded.

He shrugged. It was an uncharacteristically casual gesture. My eyes narrowed.

"Most people aren't so accepting of their shortcomings," he responded. "It's unusual."

His words were thoughtful, but there was a bite to them that I was quite certain was intentional.

"I'm practical," I retorted. "It would be the worst sort of arrogance to pretend to be good at something when I know that I'm not."

He raised a finely arched brow, thrusting his hands in his pockets.

"That may be true, but I feel compelled to point out that _advertising_ your faults is hardly required. Or intelligent, for that matter."

I scoffed.

"Are you calling me stupid, Riddle?"

His lips twitched.

"I wouldn't presume to know either way, Miss Granger."

I clenched my jaw.

"I didn't realize that being unable to properly speak French was considered a _fault,_" I ground out.

"It is when you're trying to convince people you lived in _France_ for the past six years."

I wouldn't reply to that. I could not reply to that. I had to change the subject. I had to ignore him. I had to act like nothing was wrong, and none of this was happening, and he wasn't so close, too close—I had to—I couldn't—

"Looks like we're back!" I exclaimed, halting in front of a bare dungeon wall and praying my voice came out even and calm and devoid of the faint, impenetrable quiver that I was terrified he might hear.

His mouth tightened. He looked irritated.

"So we are."

He tapped a stone with his wand and muttered the password. The wall shifted open and he gestured for me to go in first. I forced myself not to hesitate.

"Good night, Riddle," I said as we entered the mostly empty common room.

"Oh, no, please," he replied, ushering me towards the hallway that led to the girls' dormitories. "Let me walk you to your door."

"That's really not necessary—" I started to argue.

"I _insist_, Miss Granger."

He stared down at me, his face blank. I couldn't say no. I knew that. I couldn't.

"Of course."

He led me through the narrow, dimly-lit corridor, the air growing chilly as the floor began its gentle slope downwards. We passed several doors before stopping in front of mine. I opened it and waited for him to move out of the way. He didn't.

"Do you mind?" I asked.

Our eyes met. My blood turned to ice.

"Excuse me?" he drawled.

"Do you mind moving?"

He shook his head. And then he stepped aside.

"Good night, then," he said quietly, his gaze sharp. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" I whispered, dazed. My muscles felt spongy, useless, weak.

"At the quidditch game," he clarified. "I'm to protect you from Nott. Surely you haven't forgotten?"

I swallowed noisily.

"No—no I haven't."

He picked up my hand, holding it loosely, before brushing a soft, barely-there kiss across my knuckles. My face was suffused with an unwelcome, prepossessing heat.

"Until then," he said. He paused pointedly. I gripped my lower lip between my teeth. "_Hermione_."

And then he turned on his heel, striding gracefully away from my dormitory door, while I stood perfectly still and struggled to remember how to breathe.

He was so close.

Too close.

OOO


	4. III

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I am so so so sorry this took so long. I live in New York, and between the hurricane madness and having my appendix removed, I haven't had very much free time. It turns out that abdominal surgery is both painful and physically taxing, and the only bright spot was the Vicodin (so much Vicodin). I never take painkillers, so when I do they tend to put me in a coma. It didn't help that this chapter got out-of-control long without any warning whatsoever, so…there was that, too. I do promise, however, that the next update won't take nearly as much time. That said, I'm really glad that so many of you are enjoying this! I was a little afraid of writing something that isn't Dramione, but this is a lot of fun—Tom Riddle is a surprisingly compelling character, and it's interesting trying to explore his motivations and reactions to things. This side of Hermione is also one that I've always been itching to write, if only because so much of her characterization is in her head—comparing her perspective to Tom's has been tons of fun. But anyway. Enjoy!

OOO

**CHAPTER THREE**

_September 17, 1944_

_ I am supposed to sit with the Granger girl at the quidditch game later today. Malfoy demanded it—and normally that would infuriate me, but I caught the flustered, frustrated look on her face when he mentioned it, and I find myself curiously eager to examine what it is about my presence that makes her so nervous. It's almost as if she knows—_

_ No._

_ She knows nothing. It would be impossible. There weren't any witnesses. I made sure of that. If she were to somehow have…no. Because while I've often wondered how much her foolish, errant uncle knows about my extracurricular activities, I doubt he would share his suspicions with his innocent Slytherin niece. Unless he planted her here. But why would he do that? She would be a terrible spy—she's ludicrously transparent when it comes to her emotions. _

_No. She doesn't know._

_ However—_

_ If Malfoy mentioned something, even in passing—_

_ Surely he wouldn't have._

_ He is, of course, the only one of my Knights that seems wholly indifferent to the manic Pureblood idiocy that the others are so enthusiastic about. And, considering that, he has no real reason to remain loyal to me. He cares little for power and even less for my offers to teach him Dark magic. He is, in fact, remarkably uninterested in anything that can't be done on a broomstick. The only things I've ever seen him get excited about are quidditch and the Granger girl—and despite his family's rather obvious political leanings, he looks positively nauseous whenever Lestrange brings up graduation. I don't think he has the stomach for any of my plans, honestly. But what to do with him? He's wealthy and well-connected, though that's about all he has to offer. And the more I think about it, the more certain I am that he would never divulge the true nature of our friendship to the girl—he knows what I'm capable of. He knows what would happen to him if he did. Bumbling moron he may be, but he's also a Malfoy—he's genetically predisposed to have a strong sense of self-preservation. He would never have said anything._

_ No. She doesn't know._

_ Which makes her obvious dislike of me even stranger. Not to mention—she was terrified of me from the very beginning. I still remember the expression on her face when we were introduced; equal parts panic and fear, though she tried her hardest to hide it. What could have possibly inspired that? I'm careful—exceedingly careful—about my behavior. I'm trusted. I'm respected. I'll have more job offers from the Ministry than anyone else here after we graduate, not that I'll bother accepting any. If she'd heard anything of me before coming to Hogwarts, none of it would have been incriminating—so what was it about my name that made her catch her breath and look as if she'd seen a ghost? I'd find it amusing if I wasn't so…disconcerted._

_ Yes. Disconcerted. _

_Although—she's lying about where she went to school. I thought she was going to faint when I accused her of it last night. But why lie? What could she possibly have spent the last six years doing that requires that kind of secrecy? And I have no doubt that there __**is **__a secret—her desperation is pathetically tangible whenever I try to steer a conversation towards her past. She deflects and ignores and attempts—valiantly—to change the subject. _

_She's maddening. _

_ And not particularly beautiful. Although her features have a pleasing sort of symmetry, her mouth is much too wide and her chin is slightly too round. Her hair is long and soft, but a boring, rather bland shade of brown. Her skin is extraordinarily lovely, however—warm and creamy—and she is small and delicate in that peculiar way that makes one want to slay dragons and pull the proverbial sword from the stone. I suppose it's not difficult to see why Malfoy is so entranced._

_ No. Not difficult at all._

_ I do wonder, though, if she returns his feelings. She acts as if she does, but there's an emptiness to it—to __**her**__—that suggests otherwise. _

_ She is profoundly irritating._

_ Yes. Irritating._

_ Her eyes remind me of caramel._

_-TMR_

OOO

It was the morning of the Slytherin-Ravenclaw quidditch match, and the anticipation in the Great Hall was palpable. Younger students were brimming with feverish excitement, their laughter overloud and overwhelming, while older boys made bets and shouted out their predictions for the game's outcome. Most of the school was wearing blue—apparently, even in 1944, Slytherins were still the only people who could be bothered to like other Slytherins.

"Walk with me to the pitch, love?"

I jumped, startled, and turned towards Abraxas. I forced a smile.

"Of course," I agreed, taking his outstretched hand and noticing, again, how very much larger it was than my own. Surely that wasn't normal?

"Tom, we're going now," he said over his shoulder, lacing our fingers together. His skin felt unpleasantly damp. I fought the urge to pull away. "Can you and Lestrange fetch her from the changing room when you're done?"

Riddle glanced up from his coffee. His eyes flashed for a moment as he studied us.

"We'll be there," he replied shortly, nudging Lestrange.

"Yeah, yeah," Lestrange put in, scraping out a spoonful of oatmeal. "Just give us a few minutes, Malfoy. I don't even think Nott's awake yet. Can't really protect her from him if he's not around, can we?"

Abraxas's mouth tightened.

"If he's smart, he'll fucking stay asleep," he growled.

I rolled my eyes.

"Don't be so grumpy," I admonished, tugging on his sleeve. "And we should go. You'll be late for warm-ups."

He smiled down at me, his expression softening.

"Right. Yeah. Let's go."

He led me into the entrance hall, his broom tucked under his other arm, and out the giant double doors. It was a beautiful morning, all clear skies and sunshine, perfect for quidditch, and I watched, out of the corner of my eye, as Abraxas looked around the grounds, a pleased expression on his face.

"Fantastic visibility," he remarked happily. "Bloody Ravenclaws won't know what hit them."

"I'm sure," I said wryly, chuckling. "Except for the rather obvious fact that you'd be holding a beater's bat when they get hit."

He grinned, but didn't immediately reply. Instead, he kicked at the grass.

"I have something for you," he said, clumsily changing the subject. His grip on my hand tightened.

"What is it?" I asked, my heart sinking.

He fumbled in his pockets before producing a small black box. A jewelry box. I stared.

"It isn't what you think," he said quickly, fiddling with the edge of his jersey. "It's just—something—I thought you might wear. If you'd like. You don't have to. It would just—with the game and all—it would mean a lot to me. I don't know. You can say no. Really. I wouldn't—well, I _would_—but—just open it? Yeah?"

I took the box. My hand was trembling. I didn't open it.

"Abraxas," I started to say slowly, shaking my head. "I really don't—"

"Please, Hermione?"

I sighed, an awful sort of certainty that this was going to end nothing but badly hovering in the back of my mind like a dark, threatening storm cloud. Why had I let him think that he was anything more than a friend? What kind of person was I, that I was so desperate for companionship that I led him on, let him follow me around, all the while knowing that he wanted so much more than I was capable of giving? So much more than I _wanted_ to give—because he was wonderful, really, but he wasn't right. He wasn't meant for me. I knew that. But if I told him that, especially now, he would walk away. He would leave me alone—and I couldn't be alone, I absolutely couldn't, not here, not now, not when there was no one else, nothing else, not when everything was so precarious, so _wrong_, so close to falling completely apart. I needed him. I couldn't be alone.

I shuddered.

I opened the box.

And then I gasped.

Inside was a small silver ring resting on a bed of cream colored velvet. A round-cut emerald was poised at the center of the ring, winking merrily at me as its surface was fractured by sunlight. A meticulously detailed serpent had been carved into the exterior of the band, its scales so finely wrought that they seemed multidimensional. It was pretty. It was feminine. It was a promise. It was—too much.

"Abraxas…" I trailed off nervously.

His cheeks were crimson.

"It's only a ring, Hermione."

"Well, yes, but—"

"Just wear it? Please? I'd like it if you did, especially while I was playing," he replied earnestly.

"Why?"

I shouldn't have asked. I shouldn't. I knew that. I should have just put the ring on my fucking finger and not asked questions and pretended that nothing unusual had happened when he walked me to my room later that night. I shouldn't have asked. But—

He turned towards me, his brow furrowed.

"Why what?"

"Why do you want me to wear this?"

He hesitated.

"Well, because—you're mine, aren't you? I want everyone to know. I had the Malfoy crest engraved on the inside, if you want to take a look. I also—Hermione, I'd like to have my father talk to your uncle about doing all of this properly over the next few months. I—you mean a lot to me, and I know it hasn't been long, but I've never felt like this, and I'd really—I don't know. That doesn't matter right now. But—will you wear it? Please?"

_Buggering fucking hell_.

"Oh, Abraxas," I whispered, faltering. How could I do this to him? He looked so hopeful. So trusting. So _expectant_. I swallowed. "Of course I'll wear it."

As soon as the words left my mouth—hesitant and unsure and _off_—I knew that I'd made a mistake. This reality was confirmed, rather painfully, when he took two steps forward, grabbed me by the shoulders, and kissed me.

_Hard_.

I froze, momentarily distracted by the feel of rough, warm skin pressed up against me. His tongue darted out, slithering, thick and flat, and pushed against my tightly-closed lips. It was repulsive. It was disgusting. It was _slimy_. And so I jerked backwards, shoving his broad, heavily muscled chest away from me.

"I—I—" I stammered, horrified. "I'm so sorry, Abraxas. I'm so—I'm so sorry."

And then I dropped the box I'd been holding and turned swiftly away from him, intending to run. Something caught my eye, though, a movement over by the doors leading to the locker rooms, and I glanced over, expecting to see a squirrel or a first-year or _anything_, anyone, other than what—_who_—I did.

Because Tom Riddle was standing next to the pitch, his arms crossed over his stomach as he watched us. I could just make out his face, his features—had he seen us, then? Had he seen Abraxas try to give me the ring? Had he seen the kiss? Had he seen me push him away?

He realized I'd noticed him. It had barely been a moment, a fraction of a moment, and my brain was whirring into overdrive. Abraxas was reaching for my elbow. He was saying something. He didn't understand. He was confused. I should explain, shouldn't I? I should—no. I had to leave. I had to run. I had to make this go away. I didn't have time to justify. Not right now.

Tom Riddle raised his hand, as if to wave.

And then he smirked.

As if he knew something. As if he'd seen something. As if it was _funny_.

I was still wearing the ring.

OOO

Twenty minutes later, I was pacing in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy on the seventh floor of the castle, my skirt swishing against my thighs with every step I took, and thinking, rather frantically:

_I need to hide._

_I want to go home._

_I need to hide._

_I want to go home._

_I need to hide._

_I want to go home._

A nondescript brown door appeared in the wall, and I almost crumpled in relief. Finally. A place to go. A place to escape. A place where no one could follow, and no one could spy, and no one could catch me crying. I opened the door with a shaky hand, uncertain as to what would be waiting for me on the other side—and when I saw what was, I couldn't hold back a smile.

Because it was the Gryffindor common room, a perfect replica, right down to the overstuffed burgundy pillows littering the couches. I swallowed, over and over and over, choking on something that might have been happiness; it was just so _familiar_, every square inch of it, and it smelled like home, like parchment and broom polish and chocolate, and the air was warm, comforting, and the fire was roaring, and when I looked at the corner table, the one with the chess set, I could almost see Harry and Ron, arguing, laughing, waiting for me to put down my book and join them.

I walked forward, hesitating, trailing my fingertips over the soft, worn leather of a nearby armchair. This wasn't healthy. This wasn't right. I was wearing a green tie, a Slytherin tie, and I didn't belong here. I wanted so badly—too badly—to hold onto something that wasn't mine any longer. It was 1944. I had to face the very real possibility that I would not be able to go home. I couldn't keep reminiscing and missing and mourning a version of myself that wasn't allowed to exist.

Not here. Never here.

I sighed.

He'd fucking kissed me.

_Kissed_ me.

And I'd—

I'd wanted to crawl out of my fucking skin. I'd wanted to shove him off of me, furiously wipe my mouth, and _leave_.

Even though I'd let him follow me around for weeks. Even though I'd known what he wanted. I'd known that he was misreading my affection for him. But I hadn't wanted to say anything. I hadn't wanted to ruin our brief, tenuous friendship by bringing up the fact that he wanted to shag me rotten. Because then I would have had to admit that I didn't. I would have had to tell him that he was a lovely person—really, he was—but that I just didn't have those feelings for him. And how was I to do that? How could I possibly explain that every time I looked at him I was transported fifty years into the future? That his resemblance to my childhood nemesis was so absolute, so incredible, that it sometimes took my breath away?

The answer was simple.

I couldn't. I couldn't tell him that. I couldn't offer an adequate explanation for how I'd reacted. I knew that.

And Tom Riddle had watched me reject Abraxas—and he'd smirked, clearly amused by the way I'd panicked, frantically rushing off with a hastily mumbled, barely discernible apology. He was just _always there_, every time I looked up. He knew that I didn't like him. He knew that he made me uncomfortable. He didn't know why. He couldn't. But he wanted to. He was determined to. That much was obvious.

I sat down, heavily, on a red tartan sofa. I shouldn't have pushed Abraxas away. I should have kissed him back. I needed him. I should have kept pretending. Surely kissing him wouldn't have been so terribly unethical? I _needed _him, after all. I had a good reason. I did. I _did_. It was just so much harder being brave when there was no one there to catch me should everything go wrong. I hadn't expected that when I'd first arrived. The picture Dumbledore had painted—me, emotionally inaccessible, acting, smiling, pretending, all of the time, always pretending, lying, hiding—hadn't seemed that lonely at first. It had seemed rational. It had made sense. It was _logical_. But now—I wasn't sure. I had latched onto Abraxas so quickly, so instinctively. I needed him. I really did.

Because—

Because—

Because I was fucking _alone_.

"_Alone_," I whispered, blinking back tears.

The word tasted filmy and bitter when I said it out loud—wrong, almost, as if it didn't fit, didn't work, wasn't meant for me, wasn't meant to be _about_ me. But it was. It _was_ about me. I was alone, alone in a way I hadn't ever been before, and there was nothing I could do about it. Fucking _nothing_.

I'd grown up an only child, virtually friendless, but even then—_even then_, I'd had my parents, hadn't I? Parents who loved me and supported me and knew everything about me, even the silly things, like how I liked my eggs and the name I'd given to my stuffed rabbit when I was eight. And then I'd gone to Hogwarts, finally found my place in the world, where I belonged, and I'd had Harry and Ron and the Weasleys and so many others, so many people who cared, who would miss me if I left, who would notice if I was gone. So many people, all of the time, and I'd never been alone, not properly, and now I was, I really was, and I couldn't even tell anyone, I couldn't even make it better—because I had a secret, a polarizing one, and no one could know. I was isolated. I was different. I was _alone_.

And Abraxas—sweet, gentle, ferociously protective Abraxas—had tried to kiss me. Abraxas had tried to kiss me, and I was a fucking idiot if I was actually surprised by what had transpired.

I winced, tucking my legs underneath me and gazing the fireplace. I could hear the cheers from the quidditch game as the house teams took the field. How was that possible?

But—no.

I wasn't surprised. I hadn't been surprised. I'd pretended, just like I'd been pretending since I arrived here, and I'd hurt his feelings. I hadn't meant to. I hadn't meant to step back so quickly. I really hadn't. It was just that he hadn't felt right, not at all, and his lips had been dry and chapped, almost leathery, and—it had felt like I was being electrocuted, I'd just wanted to get away, push him off—and maybe that wasn't fair, maybe I should have given him a chance, but—

He'd tasted like Ron. Like lip balm and bacon and something slightly sour. It had been startling. It had been nauseating. It had been like a kick to the stomach, hard and rough and unexpected, and it had made me…sad.

_Sad_.

Abraxas had kissed me, and it had made me sad.

I yanked at a loose thread on my sweater, running my fingernail along the torn, jagged filament. What was wrong with me? He was handsome. He was kind. He listened to me and he walked me to class and he didn't ask too many questions. He was simple. He was straightforward. He _liked _me.

I tossed the thread off of the couch, narrowing my eyes when it landed barely six inches from my knees. He'd tasted like Ron. _Ron_. My best friend—the boy I'd been infatuated with for years, right up until he'd finally kissed me last summer. It had been so disappointing—I'd romanticized him, dreamed about what he might feel like, taste like—and it had been awful. _He_ had been awful. The kiss itself had been wet and messy and unpleasant, and we'd both jumped back, somewhat horrified, and agreed to never mention it again.

_That's_ what Abraxas had reminded me of. I groaned. I couldn't say that to him. I couldn't. I would have to—

_Oh, fuck._

I leapt to my feet, wand in hand, my heart beating so furiously that I was half-convinced it would burst through my chest.

Someone was here.

Someone was opening the fucking door.

Someone had found me—followed me?

_Tom Riddle_.

Tom Riddle had found me, followed me.

Tom Riddle was opening the fucking door.

Tom Riddle was here.

And then—

His voice.

Deep and rich and silky.

Mesmerizing, even.

_Fucking hell_.

"Well—_this_ is certainly not what I expected."

I closed my eyes before turning to the side to face him—slowly, so slowly, because I wasn't ready for this, because I couldn't explain myself, because he was never going to let me leave, not without an answer, and I didn't have one, I couldn't give him one, and—it was ironic, really, that he was doing this in the Gryffindor common room—the one place I had assumed, naively, that I would feel safe, be safe—because it was home, even if it wasn't real, and that was all I'd wanted. But I couldn't even have that, it seemed.

Not here. Never here.

"Riddle," I managed to croak. "What a—surprise."

"Is it, Granger?"

"Quite," I said, thrusting my hands behind my back and fisting the back of my skirt. I had to hold on. I had to feel something between my fingers that was tangible, something that was proof positive that I was still real, still breathing, still there—because I was light-headed, dizzy, certain that if I wasn't anchored to the floor, to myself, I would float away, disappear, and I wasn't ready for that. I wasn't ready to be gone. Not forever. Not for that long. Never that long.

"Must be," he mused, leaning against the wall next to the door and glancing around the room. He grimaced. "Can't imagine any self-respecting Slytherin wanting to get caught in—_this_. But then again…you're not really a self-respecting Slytherin, are you?"

I narrowed my eyes. My skirt rustled as I unclenched my hands.

"What does _that _mean?" I demanded.

He paused, clearly relishing the tension between us.

"I saw you with Abraxas, you know," he said nonchalantly, raising a brow. "You accepted a token of affection from him and then pushed him away. Bad form, Granger."

Abruptly, my tie felt tight, too tight, like it might strangle me if I left it on long enough. I resisted the urge to loosen it.

"I apologized," I retorted defensively. "And I'm giving him the ring back. As soon as I see him. Not that it's any of your business."

"Do you know who he is, Granger?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you know who he is," he repeated. It was barely a question.

"Of course I know who he _is_," I sneered.

"So you know that he's the sole heir of one of the wealthiest, oldest, most prestigious Pureblood families in the world?"

_Draco would love hearing that_, I thought bitterly. _Prat_.

"I know who the Malfoys are, yes," I ground out.

"Then you know how many girls would quite literally kill to be in your position," he went on. "That ring you're wearing—it means he wants to marry you someday. Although I'm sure you already know that, considering _you're _quite the illustrious Pureblood yourself. Your kind likes to keep it in the family, don't you?"

I almost laughed.

"Where are you going with this?"

He studied me intently.

"Slytherins are known for their cunning, Granger," he murmured, his voice somehow carrying across the room. "We're ambitious. We're manipulative. We know how to get what we want, and we know how to get other people to do what we want. We know the value of political connections and personal favors. We understand that there is nothing more powerful than power, and there is no shame whatsoever in exploiting it when you happen to possess it. The Malfoys are, for lack of a better word, _synonymous _with Slytherin principles. Marrying into their family should be the goal of any…_self-respecting_ Slytherin female."

Silence descended upon us for several minutes after he'd finished speaking, the only sound in the room the overloud ticking of the Gryffindor grandfather clock.

"So, because I don't know if I want to marry him after two weeks, I'm a bad Slytherin?" I asked, incredulous.

His lip curled.

"No."

"Then what was the point—"

"You're a bad Slytherin," he interrupted, "because you're a terrible liar. You have more secrets than I can possibly bother to count, and you're so bloody obvious about it that I'm amazed no one else has figured you out. I _know_, Granger. I _know_ you're hiding something."

Deliberately, I straightened my shoulders—he was guessing. He had to be. He was Tom Riddle, not the omnipotent, seemingly infallible Lord Voldemort; he was an eighteen year old boy, not a snake-faced menace with an army of bloodthirsty Death Eaters at his disposal. He was cruel, certainly, and disturbingly detached from anything even remotely resembling a genuine emotion.

But he was not evil incarnate.

Not yet.

He was guessing. He didn't know.

"You don't _know_ anything," I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest. "All you have is conjecture and—and some kind of silly infatuation with my uncle. You _want_ me to be hiding something, but that doesn't make it true, Riddle."

His expression faltered. I ran my tongue along the edge of my teeth.

"You expect me to believe that you've barely been here for two weeks and already know about the Room of Requirement?" he demanded. But his voice—it was less certain, less sure, less hostile. I bit back a triumphant smirk.

"My uncle knows almost everything there is to know about this castle," I pointed out smugly. "He passed on some of the more interesting secrets before I arrived."

He made a sound in the back of his throat—a growling sort of laugh, unexpected, unsettling, unpolished—and I wondered, very abruptly, if he had lost control. A faint flush was creeping up the side of his neck—but I couldn't tell if he was angry or frustrated or something else altogether. He was always so hard to read, his features frozen, his skin smooth, rather like an impossibly beautiful statue—his eyes were dark, practically black, devoid of anything besides the occasional flash of impatience. He smiled frequently, not that it meant anything, but beyond that paralyzing blend of perfect teeth and blood-red lips, there was never any physical indication of what he was thinking.

Which made this—unprecedented—reaction that much more astonishing.

"Professor Dumbledore told you how to get in here?" he clarified, his shoulders stiff.

I shrugged.

"Of course."

He sneered.

"So you _required _the Gryffindor common room? Whatever for?"

"Honestly?"

He nodded sharply.

"I was curious. I wasn't supposed to be in Slytherin, you know. Uncle Albus was very…surprised during my Sorting. He loved being a Gryffindor. Talked about it _incessantly _when I was growing up. I really just wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

His nostrils flared. Was my explanation too reasonable? Had I said too much? Lied too easily? I was grasping at my newfound confidence, trying exceptionally hard to make it stick, make it last, make it through the next ten, twenty, thirty minutes with my secret, not to mention my pride, still intact. He didn't know, I reminded myself. He was guessing. He didn't know.

"I thought you said you hardly ever saw him when you were growing up," he replied, moving slowly towards me, hands clenched into fists. His knuckles were milk-white and prominent.

I realized my mistake as he crept closer, his posture combative. He was tall, but he was not an athlete. Not like Abraxas. He did not walk with the heady sort of arrogance that the quidditch players did—he didn't swagger, he didn't lope, and he didn't appear to have that barely-there hold on his own strength when he yanked open a door. No. He was not an athlete.

But he was graceful. And when his shirt tightened almost imperceptibly around his body, the lithe, lean muscles in his back would ripple as he moved, and I couldn't help but be aware of the impressive breadth of his shoulders, the long line of his torso as it tapered down to narrow hips, his trousers slung low and loose as he shoved his hands into his pockets. He never wore a belt—his shirt, crisp and clean, would be stuffed into the top of his pants, shiny black buttons catching the edge of the cotton, and sometimes, as he stood up after class, I would notice the material bunch up underneath his zipper. I shouldn't have noticed. I shouldn't have looked. I often wondered why I did.

Except that didn't matter. The way he way he was walking towards me—gracefully, sensuously, predatorily—that was what mattered. And I'd backed myself into a corner, quite literally, the backs of thighs pressed up against the large tartan couch, my skirt hitched up, slightly, the fabric scratchy against my bare skin. But—what had he asked me? He'd asked me something. He'd caught me lying, hadn't he? No. He hadn't. He was guessing, of course he was guessing, he was always guessing. It was a guess. Just a guess. Always a guess.

"Excuse me?"

He stopped in front of me, his head tilted to the side. I flicked my eyes down. His hands were in his pockets. I felt my throat go dry.

"Your first night here," he said softly, his gaze boring into my own. "You said that you hardly saw Professor Dumbledore when you were a child. But just now…you said that he talked about Gryffindor all the time. Which is it?"

I licked my lips. His jaw tensed. A dull pain was emanating from inside of my skull.

"It was a—a figure of speech," I stuttered, utterly unable to look away from him. Was this magic? Had he cast a spell? "Whenever—well, he wasn't around often, but when he was—he talked about Gryffindor. He was—proud of it."

A brief, chilling smile flitted across his face. I couldn't blink. I wouldn't blink.

"How silly," he whispered, almost to himself.

"What's silly?"

He lifted a hand up as if to brush my hair back from my forehead. But he didn't touch me. Of course he didn't touch me.

"You are, darling," he answered quietly, leaning forward, his breath hot and tantalizing and moist against my cheek. "After all…you don't really think I believe anything you're saying, do you?"

And then I froze, stopped breathing, felt my lungs constrict, contract, collapse—and he chuckled, his lips brushing against my ear—and I was reminded, suddenly, painfully, of a very important fact, one that I couldn't believe I'd had the temerity, the audacity, to overlook—

Tom Riddle was brilliant.

Tom Riddle was powerful.

Tom Riddle didn't _need_ to guess, not when all he had to do was stand close and look into my eyes.

Because Tom Riddle could read minds.

I twisted the ring Abraxas had given me, around and around and around—I was still wearing it. Why was I still wearing it? What was wrong with me?

Tom Riddle could read minds.

Tom Riddle had read my mind and seen my memories and that meant he knew, that meant he _knew_, no more guessing, he wasn't fucking guessing—

_ Bloody fucking hell_.

OOO


	5. IV

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I told you this wouldn't take nearly as long, haha. Thanks to all of you who expressed concern over my wellbeing—I'm doing fine, although I still can't really laugh out loud without wanting to cry. (I'm aware of the irony.) My abdominal muscles are apparently in revolt. Ah, well. Moving on.

I want to address something, though—a few (very few, but still) of you have expressed some…disbelief that Hermione would swear so much in her head. I disagree. Adamantly. She's a seventeen year old girl whose two best friends are seventeen year old boys. I know that there wasn't a ton of swearing in the books, but JK Rowling did, after all, write them for children. I used swearing as a character device in "Difficult"—which a _ton_ of people had problems with, haha—but I'm being far less liberal with it in this. She swears when it fits, and never out loud, which is my only concession to "real Hermione" and her annoying sense of propriety. I'm sorry if some of you feel this is unrealistic, or in some way compromises her character…but I don't see it that way. I have a very clear idea of the kind of person this particular version of Hermione is, and she happens to say 'fuck' a lot in her head. It is what it is. This isn't canon. (Thank _God_.)

Anyway. Rant over. Thanks for reading/reviewing/etc. I hope you all enjoy this chapter—there's a shift in Hermione and Tom's interaction with each other that's quite important.

OOO

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Time might have stopped. I didn't know. I couldn't tell. I was horrified. I was embarrassed. I was _lost_.

What had I done?

How could I have forgotten? How could I have been such a fucking idiot? _How_? I was smart. Everyone said so. I had a photographic memory; I could recite the entirety of _Hogwarts, A History_—all twelve hundred pages—_verbatim_. I had a head for numbers and details and always remembered people's birthdays. I_ did not_ forget important information.

I didn't.

Then how had this happened?

I'd let it, of course. I'd been so caught up in being _scared_—I'd had a fucking month to get over that, though, and I hadn't. Had I even wanted to? Wasn't it easier to let Dumbledore deal with it all? I was just so fucking _tired_ of fighting. Six years of constant fear, constant worry—living a normal life hadn't been possible, not when all I could think to do was bite my nails and wonder when it would all culminate into something vicious and aggressive and unfixable.

But was that even an excuse? Wanting a fucking _break_ from—everything? Harry had finally killed him. We'd won. It was all about to be over, over in that unbearably _final_ way that I hadn't let myself hope for, not for the longest time, and then, before I could even collapse from exhaustion, from relief, it had all been taken from me.

_Stolen_.

And I'd woken up in this ridiculous fucking nightmare, where nothing was how it was supposed to be, and—

_Fucking stop it, Hermione._

I felt self-loathing, frigid and thick, settle over my shoulders like a wet blanket. _This_ was what had happened. _This _was why I'd forgotten something so fundamental.

Tom Riddle—_Voldemort_—was a Legilimens. He probably knew everything, including the outcome of the war, and that meant that my silly fucking mistake hadn't just ruined _my_ life, but the entire future of the wizarding world. It meant that—

"You're here to spy on me, aren't you? For your uncle? There's no other way you would have been sorted into Slytherin. You positively _reek_ of Hufflepuff—or maybe even Gryffindor. Something pathetic, either way. But what does he want to know? What does he have you doing?"

_What_?

I cocked my head to the side, momentarily stunned. He'd moved back, his wand pointed directly at my throat.

He didn't know.

_He didn't know_.

My secret was still safe.

He didn't know.

My mouth fell open. My pulse slowed down. And then I bit back a laugh, lingering traces of anxiety dissipating—because I'd forgotten, in the past month, what I was capable of. I'd been frozen, unable to think properly, my brain muddled with fear and panic and shock. I'd wallowed in something that looked a lot like self-pity, letting Tom Riddle intimidate me, follow me, always standing just a little too close, his body warm, his eyes cold—except he was too close, just the tiniest bit too close, almost as if he knew—

But he didn't know.

He didn't know anything about me.

He didn't know that I had once been called the brightest witch Hogwarts had seen in a century; he didn't know that I'd helped defeat him, fifty years in the future, and that I could write four feet of parchment on the various uses of dragon's blood without even opening a textbook. He didn't know that I was a muggle-born, a mudblood—he didn't know that I was a rather formidable enemy, prone to temper tantrums and sneaky, albeit rash, acts of retribution. He didn't know that I knew _everything_ about him—from his rather tragic beginnings to his sociopathic adolescence.

He didn't know.

Anger began to slowly simmer under the surface of my skin, volatile and violent—it exploded in my veins, like someone had taken a match to a stick of dynamite and siphoned off the residual heat before injecting it into my bloodstream.

He'd tried to trick me. He'd tried to pass off his creepy, uninvited hovering as Legilimency. He thought I was a simpering, over-privileged Pureblood. He thought I was unremarkable. He thought I was beneath him, hardly worth the effort. He thought he could trap me in shadowy corridors and pin me against the wall and force me to tell him what I knew.

I snorted indelicately.

Well—

Fuck _that_.

I'd wandered around the castle for almost three weeks with my head down and my hand tucked into Abraxas Malfoy's arm. I'd played dumb in class, feigned indifference when Edmond Lestrange went off on a tirade about mudbloods—and _oh_, how that word rankled, still, still, after all this time, it made me want to throw up, _give_ up, reminded me of all the ways I'd never be good enough, never belong, not really, until all I felt, all I could feel, was sharp brutal agonizing pain as a knifepoint grazed my skin like a butterfly's wings before slicing, cutting, _carving_—but no, I'd avoided Tom Riddle, been obvious about my distaste, hopeful that he would concede defeat and leave me alone.

_No more_.

No more of this forced, preposterous half-life that I'd let Dumbledore talk me into. I was better than that, better than _this_. I didn't need to hide. I didn't need to prevaricate.

"You should probably stop asking so many questions," I said decisively, leaning back to spear him with a glare. "You don't know me. You don't know what I'm capable of. You should leave me alone while you still can."

His eyes widened.

"_What_?"

"You heard me," I said, leveling my wand at his chest. Where had _that _come from? "You're wrong. You have no bloody idea what you're talking about or who you're dealing with. I suggest you drop it, Riddle."

"Are you—are you _threatening _me?" he asked, incredulous.

I offered him a cold smile.

"_Threatening_ is such a nasty, misunderstood word," I said kindly, tapping my finger against my jaw. "It makes me sound…mean. I'd prefer to say that I'm _warning _you, I think. Yes. I like that much better."

His mouth curled into a lopsided grimace, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. And maybe he couldn't. Maybe he was having trouble reconciling the passive, soft-spoken girl he'd assumed me to be with the one standing in front of him. Ron had called me scary once, hadn't he?

"_You're_ warning _me_? Surely you're not serious."

I bristled.

"Underestimating me might prove dangerous, Riddle," I retorted.

"I highly doubt that," he scoffed. "I've seen you in class, remember? You're practically a squib."

I smiled. His expression turned calculating.

"_Practically _isn't much of a guarantee, is it?" I shot back haughtily.

He furrowed his brow.

"Are you a spy?"

I quirked my lips.

"What do you think?"

He paused.

"I think you're fascinating."

I gripped my wand tightly.

"No," I countered quickly. "You're just obsessive. You know nothing about me, and because I'm related to Uncle Albus, you feel like you need to."

He sighed.

"Why do you keep saying that? I have little to no interest whatsoever in Professor Dumbledore."

I sniffed disbelievingly.

"He's mentioned you," I replied vaguely. "I know that he's the one who brought you here from that muggle orphanage and introduced you to magic. It stands to reason you'd find him interesting."

His jaw stiffened.

"You know about that," he stated, his tone deceptively calm. "The orphanage."

I frowned. Was that not common knowledge yet?

"Doesn't everyone?"

He moved so quickly, so suddenly, that I didn't have time to fall backwards; but he'd stepped forward, his hands grasping my shoulders, and hauled me up, his fingers bunching up around the cotton of my shirt, his face stupidly close, dizzyingly close—

"No," he snarled, his mouth open and hot and barely an inch away from my own—his breath, I noticed dimly, smelled like peppermint and citrus and something else, something musky. It was enthralling. It shouldn't have been. "They know that I'm an orphan. They know that my mother died when I was a baby and that I never had any knowledge of my—of my _father_." He spat the word out as if he couldn't be rid of it fast enough. "But no one knows that I go back to a _muggle orphanage_ over the summers. Except your uncle. And now, apparently, _you_. But why would he tell you that? Hmm? Why would he tell his hopeless, magically inept niece something so personal about another student?"

I tried to jerk away from him. He didn't let go.

"You're telling me that in the past six years—_six years, for God's sake_—no one's thought to question where you go over the holidays?" I choked out, clawing at the collar of my shirt.

He stared at me for a long, tense moment, and it was then that I realized his eyes weren't black, not at all—no, up close, in the firelight, they weren't black, no, no, they were brown, a dark, deep, chocolate color that made me think, almost wistfully, of languorous bubble baths and expensive champagne and my parents' annual New Year's party, the one that they had never let me stay up late for until the year I turned fourteen. I caught my breath.

"Suffice it to say that if anyone decided to wonder about that, they'd find themselves…distracted," he retorted, his perfect, bright-white teeth clenched tightly together.

"So you _are _a Legilimens," I whispered, swallowing.

His expression flickered with surprise.

"Something else your meddlesome old uncle deduced and decided to share with you, I take it?"

I nodded slowly. He shoved me back onto the couch.

"What else does he know?" he demanded.

"Wh—what?" I stammered.

He swooped down ferociously.

"_What_—_else_—_does_—_he_—_know_?"

"What are you _talking _about?"

He sneered.

"The only reason I haven't gone into your head yet—you stupid, _stupid_ girl—is because I know that you would have felt it," he said, still looming menacingly over me. "And if Albus Dumbledore's precious niece had her useless brain _defiled_ in such a way, there would probably be a nationwide manhunt. Your pitiful little secrets are hardly worth _that_ kind of trouble."

I blanched before gathering the jagged, ragged remnants of my courage.

"Oh, well _done_, Riddle," I snapped sarcastically. "You're not honestly trying to manipulate me into thinking you don't _care_, are you? Because even though I've gone out of my way to make sure you believed me to be nothing more than an insipid waste of space, I _promise_ you—I'm anything but."

Abruptly, he stood up straight, his features relaxing into a familiar mask of indifference.

"This conversation has gotten out of hand," he announced snidely. "Several other professors happen to know that I'm close to mastering Legilimency, you know. It isn't a _secret_."

Was I imagining the bizarre emphasis he placed on that last word?

"Like who? It's not only an incredibly difficult skill to acquire, but it's basically _unheard_ of for someone so young to—"

He cut me off with a scathing glare.

"Are you underestimating me, Granger? Because I assure you, I'm _more_ than capable of—"

"Of what?" I taunted, speaking over him. "Being an arrogant, overconfident—"

"—shredding your pretty little face into ribbons without even lifting my wand, you—you _annoying,_ silly, _pretentious_—"

"—_megalomaniac_!" I finished triumphantly.

"—_cunt_!" he said at the same time.

Silence followed our pronouncements. He was watching me, his nose scrunched up in distaste; I, however, was still attempting to wrap my mind around the fact that Tom Riddle had just called me a—

"That's awfully inappropriate language for our illustrious Head Boy," I drawled.

He flinched.

"I apologize. I was…angry. I crossed a line. Forgive me."

"You're joking, aren't you?"

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"We've both spent the past ten minutes threatening one another—rather obviously, in fact—and you think suddenly being polite will somehow make this situation seem _normal_?"

He didn't say anything at first—just continued to study me, his gaze inscrutable, unnerving, my awareness of his physical proximity so potent, so fierce, that it made my hands tremble with something warm and sticky and inescapable and—_unfamiliar_.

Yes.

Unfamiliar. That's all. Just that.

"You know more about me than you're letting on," he said unexpectedly. "More than you should."

I reminded myself to tread carefully. He was brilliant—he was powerful—he wouldn't hesitate to hurt me, even now, especially now, and I had to get this right. I _had_ to. I clenched my hands into fists, feeling the hardened edges of Abraxas' ring dig into my skin. I winced.

"I asked Uncle Albus about you," I replied evasively. "I was curious."

"Why?"

"Why was I curious?"

"Yes."

"Because you make me uncomfortable," I answered honestly.

"_I make you uncomfortable_," he echoed. He looked appalled.

"Don't act so surprised. I think you do it on purpose."

He grunted.

"I just want answers, Granger."

I rolled my eyes.

"Answers to what?"

"You haven't stopped lying since you got here. I want to know why," he said.

My head began to ache.

"What makes you think I've been lying?"

Almost casually, he pulled his wand out of his trouser pocket. He twirled it around with long, elegant fingers.

"You can't stand it when Lestrange touches you," he commented matter-of-factly. "Why is that, I wonder?"

"I don't like him," I retorted.

"So—you don't like him, you don't like me…you clearly no longer like Malfoy," he mused softly. "And you're incapable of keeping any of that to yourself. No. You must not be a spy, after all."

How had I lost my hold over this conversation? I could feel the way his words, simple, swift, deadly, began to slide and slither around my brain and make things complicated—I needed to get him to stop. I needed to remember who I was, who he was, and I needed to regain some small semblance of control, I did, because I could do this, I could play his game, I could—

I couldn't.

I knew that.

He probably knew that, too.

_Fucking hell._

"What other teachers know that you can do Legilimency?" I blurted out, clumsily changing the subject.

His nostrils flared.

"Why would I tell you?"

I shrugged.

"You don't have to, I suppose."

"I didn't ask if I _had to_. I asked why I _would_," he snapped.

"You wouldn't, obviously. I don't think you like me very much."

He turned away from me very suddenly, his posture stiff.

"Slughorn knows."

"Slughorn doesn't count," I said derisively. "You're the star of his little club, aren't you? He'd sooner kiss a hippogriff then turn you in. Besides, he's the one who told you about hor—"

My eyelids fluttered shut.

_Fuck. _

_Fuck. _

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck—_

"What did you just say?" he asked quietly. I couldn't see, but I got the impression he was facing me again. His voice wasn't muffled and distant like it should have been.

"I didn't say anything."

"What did you _almost _say, then."

I gulped.

"Nothing. It was nothing."

"No. It was not _nothing_. What did you say, Granger? _What do you know_?"

He had stepped forward. I could feel it—feel _him_.

"I don't—I don't know what you're talking about," I mumbled, still unable to open my eyes. Because if I didn't, if I just kept them closed, I couldn't see him, I couldn't see his reaction, his face, I could pretend—always pretending, I couldn't ever stop—that I hadn't opened my stupid fucking mouth and spoken without thinking—

_What had happened to me?_

I used to shout at Harry and Ron for this kind of thing. I was sensible. I was practical. I did not make thoughtless, impulsive decisions, and I certainly didn't act without thoroughly contemplating the consequences. I was clever. Everyone said so. When had everything gone so wrong?

"Don't you?" Riddle was asking silkily. "Or maybe you don't. Maybe you don't know what a…_horcrux_ is. Is that it? You don't know?"

It was strange, I reflected, that I was having this particular conversation—this ominous, inappropriate conversation, so much like an unwanted shadow prowling around the edges of my vision, a sinister, lurking presence that promised nothing but certain misery—in the Gryffindor common room. I'd wanted to go home. I'd wanted a place to hide. I'd wanted to feel, just for a few moments, like things were normal and innocent and _right _again.

But I hadn't stopped making mistakes since I opened the fucking door. Why had I tried to bait _Tom fucking Riddle_? What had I hoped to accomplish? It was all very well to know, privately, that I was his intellectual equal. I'd tried to _taunt_ him, though—I'd thrown around thinly veiled threats and snide suppositions, hoping for a rise, a reaction, something that might make him seem human.

I'd forgotten, of course, just how dangerous he was. I should have let him think I was a bloody spy, never mind how ludicrous the idea. I should have let him continue to talk to me as if I were an imbecile. I should have remembered who I was dealing with—the future Dark Lord, a murderer, a heartless, soulless sycophant whose endgame I'd never quite been able to figure out. I should have remembered that he was all of those things, even if he didn't look like it yet, even if he didn't really _act_ like it yet—but that was the fucking problem, wasn't it?

He didn't act like it. He didn't look like it. Oh, there was very clearly something _off_ about him; he treated his closest friends like servants, for the most part, and whenever he smiled, it didn't quite fit, as if he had practiced the action one too many times in front of a mirror and lost track of what it was supposed to mean. And he had the most remarkable ability to fill a room as soon as he set foot in it—not physically, since he wasn't really all that big, but in a way that was magnetic, electric, as if you couldn't possibly look away, not even for a second, because there was something about the space he occupied that felt larger than it should. He was the type of person you wanted to follow, to lead you into battle—assertive, charismatic, with arresting eyes and perfect skin and a deep, penetrating, almost _seductive_ quality to his voice—he was enigmatic, mysterious—_hypnotizing_, that was what he was, you couldn't help yourself, you absolutely couldn't, you just wanted to—wanted to—

"_No_."

Had I said that? Out loud?

"No?" he countered.

"No," I said again, more confidently.

Silence. Heavy, prepossessing silence. And then—

"You don't know what a horcrux is, Hermione? Is that what you're saying?"

I exhaled loudly. Bugger the timeline. Dumbledore had more or less given me permission to ignore it, hadn't he?

I opened my eyes.

"No, _Tom_, I know exactly what a horcrux is," I replied archly.

His eyebrows snapped together.

"Well, well, well. Dumbledore's innocent little niece isn't so innocent, after all. Mucking about with Dark magic, are you?"

_What_?

I felt off-balance, unstable, as if I was standing on the brink of a cracked and crumbling cliff—_this_, then, this feeling, was what it meant to be precarious, suspended, helpless and confused over a precipice that I didn't rightly understand the depths of. Why wasn't he furious? Why weren't his hands wrapped around my throat, squeezing, threatening—why wasn't he demanding answers? Why was he just _looking at me_, lips twitching, posture unaffected, as if I hadn't said anything at all? Wasn't this his biggest secret? Wasn't this what he'd spent fifty fucking years trying to hide?

"What I want to know, though, is how you know that it was Slughorn who told me about the more—unique—aspects of what a horcrux can do," he went on when I didn't immediately respond.

"Little goes on at Hogwarts that Uncle Albus remains ignorant of," I said quietly.

"Yes, you keep mentioning him," he observed. "Which is all well and good, Granger, but why would he have shared _any_ of this with you? Hmm?"

My lips parted. My brain scrambled to find a suitable reply. It failed.

"Like I said before, Riddle—I would stop asking questions. You have no idea who—_what_—you're dealing with."

He snorted.

"This is ridiculous," he stated, crossing his arms over his chest. "Unequivocally. You don't know anything about me. No one does. I've made more than sure of that, I promise you."

"I'm sure you have," I said firmly. "Just as you know nothing about _me_. Let's keep it that way, shall we?"

"You seem awfully sure that I'll be amenable to that arrangement," he said.

I glanced at the fireplace. It crackled merrily.

"What would Dippet say, I wonder, if he found out that his golden boy was dabbling in the Dark Arts?" I asked amiably.

He appraised me oddly. I felt my stomach muscles bunch together.

"Have you ever killed anyone, Granger?" he asked abruptly.

My mouth went stale.

"Ex—excuse me?"

His eyes were shuttered.

"It's a simple 'yes or no' question. Have you ever killed anyone?"

Would there be a point to lying? No, probably not. I'd never been very good at it.

"No. No, I've never—I've never killed anyone."

Something like satisfaction rippled across his face.

"I thought not," he murmured.

A discomfiting sort of quiet rolled across the room. I realized, belatedly, that I was behaving rather recklessly. I wanted to scream.

"What does that have to do with anything? Trying to determine if I've made any horcruxes, are you?" I tried to sneer. I doubted that I was successful.

He chuckled, and the sound crept down my spine in prickly, tremulous waves.

"_I've_ killed someone, Granger," he said softly, ignoring my questions. "Did you know that?"

_Yes_.

"No," I whispered.

"Mmm," he purred. "Ask Malfoy if you don't believe me."

_What_?

"Abraxas?" I choked out.

"Indeed," he replied. "He's just _full_ of surprises, isn't he?"

My mind latched onto the implications of what he was saying. Something else was going on. Had he already inducted his first Death Eaters? Wasn't that not supposed to happen until much later?

But he had stepped backwards again, turning towards the door, before pausing.

"Just thought I'd give you something to think about, Miss Granger," he said casually. "Don't fret."

And then he was gone, just like that, and I was collapsing onto the ugly tartan couch, fiddling with Abraxas' ring, sliding it up and down my finger, fighting the curious urge to retch—

_Don't fret_.

What had I gotten myself into?

OOO


	6. V

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Just a fun little reminder that Tom Riddle is still an almost-eighteen year-old boy, despite the whole creepy sociopath thing he has going on. And for those of you who are getting impatient, I promise promise promise you don't have very much longer to wait. Tom and Hermione's relationship (romantically, I mean) is very important to the overall plot. Just trust me a little bit, haha. I'm building up to something (or trying to, at least) and it won't be perfect if it's rushed.

Quick note: I've made Tom completely virginal. There's a fairly important psychological reason for that (which I will explore in detail later on in the story) but I also wanted to clearly delineate this innocent, almost naïve side of his personality with the murderous, intimidating one. I like the duality. Plus, I've only ever seen him characterized as some kind of ridiculous sex god, which always makes me want to gag (not in the good way, either) so…there's that. But anyway. Enjoy!

OOO

**CHAPTER FIVE **

_September 18, 1944_

_I called her a cunt._

_ God._

_ A __**cunt**__!_

_ I haven't lost control like that since last summer. I suppose, at the end of the day, I should just be happy that I don't have a body to dispose of—but that word—__**cunt**__—provokes the oddest sensations…I know what it means, of course. I have a detailed, albeit secondhand, understanding of the female anatomy, thanks to Malfoy and his disgusting inability to keep his mouth shut. Regardless, though. Granger wasn't even offended. I thought she was going to laugh. And it was disturbingly easy to say. Almost as if I wanted to—_

_Is this the kind of thing Malfoy whispers to the Hufflepuffs he's always getting caught in broom closets with? I was angry—furious, really—when I said it, but I can imagine—in other circumstances—that it might be…pleasant. Visceral. Yes. In a different setting, I bet Granger wouldn't even laugh. She might even like it. Might like hearing it, I mean. From me. Depending on what was going on. _

_**Cunt**__. I've never touched one. Or seen one. Malfoy's __**tasted**__ one, as unsanitary as that sounds, but I really can't imagine the appeal. Although I sometimes wonder—_

_ I do not know why I said it. Even now, I recognize how inappropriate it was. Not that she didn't deserve it. The little idiot had the audacity to threaten me. It seems that she feels that her presence here has nothing whatsoever to do with me, and I should leave well enough alone. I thought, at first, that she was bluffing—until she made it clear that she knew things about me that she absolutely should __**not**__. Which is how I discovered something about __**her**__ that's rather vexing in its ambiguity._

_ She is not Albus Dumbledore's niece._

_ I have no idea how I did not see it sooner. The evidence was all there, the clues more than obvious…but it took hearing the word 'horcrux' fall from between her pretty pink lips to cement the realization. _

_ What kind of innocent young girl knows what a horcrux is? Not the kind that have Albus Dumbledore—protector of honesty and truth and all that rubbish—for an uncle. Because he is many things—senile, idealistic, foolish—but he is not tolerant. If a spell has even the faintest hint of a shadow attached to it, he thinks it should be banned and erased and locked away for the entire rest of forever. He's __**pathological**__ about it. He would never abide her interest in something legitimately Dark. And since I doubt he's unaware of her knowledge—after all, the man is practically omniscient when it comes to the students here—that must mean that he does not care. _

_ So—_

_ No. They are not blood relatives. Their relationship is something else. But why lie? To everyone? What kind of secrets does she have that she's managed to get Albus Dumbledore to __**lie**__ to protect her? _

_ And how did she know that Slughorn was the one to originally inform me about the true purpose of a horcrux? I have no doubt that Dumbledore knows about that conversation. But why would he tell __**her**__? It happened last year, long before her arrival. _

_ So very many things about her do not add up. _

_ She accepted Malfoy's betrothal gift—a ring; how utterly quaint—seemingly without any comprehension of the ramifications. Never mind Malfoy's pitiful attempts at physical intimacy afterwards—in broad daylight, no less. And here I thought that Purebloods were all so well-schooled in chivalry—but she was genuinely taken aback when I informed her of what she'd accepted by putting that ring on her finger. What girl born into the magical world gets to the age of seventeen without being taught about these antiquated little rituals? _

_Especially one who looks like her._

_ Unless she was not born into the magical world. A muggle-born? Sorted into Slytherin? Unlikely, but…something to consider, at the very least._

_ However._

_I should not have ended our conversation the way I did. I see that now. God. I basically confessed to being a murderer. Not that I think she's going to tell anyone—no, I feel that we reached some kind of understanding, a tacit agreement to ignore the more awkward aspects of our…interactions. She's very obviously hiding a great many things about her past, and she's more than aware of my skepticism. No. She won't be telling anyone my secrets. Who would even believe her if she tried?_

_ I __**do **__need to figure out what Malfoy's up to, though. I assumed—as did Lestrange—that his fixation with the girl was primarily physical. After all, the first words out of his mouth the night he met her were…lewd, at best. (I wonder what she would say if she knew that he wanted to—what was it?—__**fuck her into the mattress**__? He's such a bloody degenerate—) But an ancestral ring…I'm curious. Because I'm certain there's more to it than that. Malfoy isn't exactly a brilliant tactician. _

_Which would mean he's acting under someone else's orders. _

_Which means that those orders aren't __**mine**__._

_ Which is unacceptable. _

_-TMR_

OOO

It was the next morning, and I was pounding my fist against Dumbledore's office door. He needed to know how badly I'd screwed up. He needed to know that I'd made a mistake. He needed to know, and he needed to tell me what to do, what to say, how to act, because if he didn't—I was going to fucking scream. Out of frustration, or fear, or something else altogether—I didn't know, couldn't begin to guess, but—he had to tell me. He had to tell me what to do.

"Professor—Uncle Albus?" I called out desperately. "Are you there?"

The door suddenly swung open, revealing a slightly disheveled Albus Dumbledore. His glasses were crooked and there was a smudge of what looked like dust smeared across his chest. His beard was a tangled mess.

"Oh—Miss Granger," he said sheepishly, stepping aside and gesturing for me to follow him inside. "Terribly sorry. I was—well, I was busy with a project of mine, nothing too important. What can I do for you?"

I glanced at him curiously as I moved into his office. He settled into the comfortable leather chair behind his desk.

"Any news?" I asked, unwilling to immediately delve into the true purpose of my visit.

He pursed his lips.

"Unfortunately, no," he replied, motioning for me to take a seat. "There might be something promising with my contact in France—splendid fellow, top of his class at Durmstrang, although, of course, that was an appalling number of years ago—but as I've told you before, you'll be the first to be apprised of any important developments."

I fidgeted nervously. I didn't sit down.

"Of course," I mumbled, looking anywhere but at him. "Right. Of course."

He studied me for a long moment.

"Miss Granger?" he asked gently. "Is everything alright?"

I opened and closed my mouth several times before responding.

"I did something incredibly stupid, Professor," I whispered, finally falling into an armchair. My posture remained uncomfortably rigid.

"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.

I heaved a sigh and cringed.

"I told you, I think, that Tom Riddle was…unusually interested in me, didn't I?"

"You mentioned that he seemed curious, yes."

I swallowed.

"I was just so _sick_ of it," I blurted out, smoothing my fingertips over the edge of my skirt. The wool felt rough against my skin. "He wouldn't leave me alone. I couldn't take it. We—exchanged words."

"I'm not sure that I understand."

"I may have intimated that I—well, that I knew things about him that I shouldn't," I confessed, chewing my bottom lip. "You're aware that I know quite a bit about a lot of the students here, just by virtue of where—_when_—I'm from—and I didn't tell you this before, Professor, but I _do_ know who Tom Riddle is—or should I say _did_—I don't know. It's a technicality. But I might have mentioned hor—something that only he should know about. Something about himself. Something rather important. I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't. I wasn't thinking. It was just that he was standing quite close to me, and he called me a horrid name—it was almost funny, actually, because I never thought I'd hear _him_ say that word out loud—but—I couldn't—I was just so—"

"You were overwhelmed, Miss Granger," he interrupted softly. "It's perfectly understandable. May I ask, however, how he reacted? Was he angry?"

"Not exactly," I replied cautiously. "Maybe at first. I'm not sure. But he did say something—right before he left…"

He offered me a kind smile.

"What did he say, Miss Granger?"

"He asked me if I'd ever killed anyone, Professor."

His smile faded.

"Ah," he said tiredly. "I see."

"And when I said no—because I haven't, and even if I had, I couldn't very well tell him that, could I?—but—he then said that _he_ had. He told me that he'd killed someone. I mean, I'm not surprised, Professor, since I already know who he killed and how he did it and—well, I'm aware of the circumstances, I suppose. And I know that _you_ know who I'm talking about. But why would he tell me that? It seemed like a threat, but…I'm your niece, as far as he knows. He wouldn't threaten your niece. Would he? He knows that I would just go and tell you."

He leaned back in his chair and adjusted his spectacles.

"I suspect that—what's the muggle saying, my dear?—_the jig is up_, so to speak," he said sadly.

I froze.

"What?"

"It would seem that young Mr. Riddle has guessed that you are not my niece," he said, shrugging.

I blinked stupidly.

"No, he hasn't. He couldn't have. I was—careful. He hasn't," I insisted.

He reached for a small dish of candy, taking his time to select a peppermint before popping it into his mouth.

"You could be right," he said slowly. "And I could very well be wrong. But Tom is a stupendously clever, remarkably troubled young man, Miss Granger. It would be unwise to underestimate him, don't you think?"

Abruptly, I stood up and began to pace anxiously in front of his desk.

"Can't you—do something? Alter his memory? Make this go away?" I pleaded, wringing my hands. "This can't happen, Professor. You don't understand. _He can't know_. He can't know things like this. He's—dangerous. I can't tell you why, you know that, but—_please_. This can't happen."

He didn't say anything for awhile. His expression remained staunchly contemplative. I sank back into the armchair.

"What do you know about time paradoxes, Miss Granger?"

I wrinkled my nose.

"Excuse me? _Time paradoxes_—what?"

"Indeed," he replied thoughtfully. "Time paradoxes. The theoretical shifting of a specific timeline—simply put, what happens when a time traveler changes something in the past that will come to adversely affect the future. A second timeline is created, is it not?"

My lips were dry.

"No one knows," I said quietly. "No one—well, no one documented, at least—has ever traveled far enough back in the past to do any real damage. The concept of temporal paradoxes is entirely theoretical."

He nodded encouragingly.

"Yes, it is. And, really, there are an almost infinite number of proposed theories regarding the consequences of long-term exposure to the past. Have you heard of the grandfather paradox, Miss Granger?"

"It's a hypothetical scenario in which the time traveler in question goes back in time and kills their own grandfather," I recited glumly. "Before said grandfather has the chance to procreate, thereby negating the time traveler's own existence. The paradox lies in the fact that if the time traveler never had a chance to exist in the future, they would be unable to return. They would be—stuck, indefinitely, in the past. There would be a new timeline. The time traveler—they would be anomalous. They wouldn't belong."

"Very good, Miss Granger."

I exhaled impatiently.

"What does this have to do with Tom Riddle?" I asked. "Last I checked, Professor, he isn't my grandfather."

His eyes twinkled merrily behind his spectacles.

"No, he most certainly isn't," he agreed, but didn't elaborate.

Something occurred to me. I tried to swallow. My throat was numb.

"Are you trying to tell me that you think I've created a new timeline and there's no possible way for me to go home?" I demanded, panicking.

"That isn't the part of the theory that I want you to focus on," he replied congenially. "I want you to focus on the fact that there are things you can do—without necessarily meaning to or thinking about it—that _will_ change the future. Invariably. Your future will not be the same should you return, Miss Granger. It might even be unrecognizable."

I toyed with the ring Abraxas had given me, relishing the feel of the smooth, cool silver against my skin. I reminded myself to return it to him as soon as I got a chance.

"I see," I said stiffly. "And this relates to my predicament with Tom Riddle…how?"

He sighed.

"I'm beginning to suspect that he's the reason you were sent here," he explained calmly. "I've already told you that I believe you're _meant _to alter the past in some capacity—and I'm becoming increasingly certain that whatever you're meant to be changing has something to do with Tom."

For several minutes, the only sound in his office was the methodical ticking of an ancient looking brass clock on his desk.

"If you knew what I knew, Professor, you wouldn't be saying that," I finally whispered. "You don't—you can't—he's _evil_. There isn't—there's not—the things he does—you don't know what you're talking about!"

He regarded me steadily. I flinched.

"No one is purely evil or purely good, Miss Granger," he said solemnly. "I'm aware—more than aware—of Mr. Riddle's shortcomings. They are a…particular concern of mine. The things you're saying do not surprise me in the least. However—do not delude yourself into believing that right now he is the same person you've—ah, _heard of_—in your own time. He is still a boy, after all."

I gaped at him, unable to fully process what he was saying.

"You want me to _save_ Tom Riddle?" I bleated. "Are you _mad_, Professor?"

He chuckled wryly.

"It has been suggested, yes."

That was fucking _it_. I stood up again. My legs were shaky.

"Look, I'm not doing this," I said quickly. "I can't do this. You don't understand, Professor. He's—he's not _capable _of being—being _saved_, alright? He's past that. He's beyond that. I won't do it. I won't consciously mess with the timeline, either, because—I don't care what you say, Professor, and I mean that respectfully, really—it goes against _everything _I've ever been told about time travel. And you seem to think that the _Sorting Hat_ implying that I might have a greater purpose here is—is incontrovertible proof that that's true! Which is—ridiculous, Professor. It's _ridiculous_."

He watched me carefully. I edged towards the office door. My skin felt itchy. I wanted to leave. I needed to leave.

"Well, I can hardly force you to see things my way, can I?" he asked kindly.

"I'm sorry, Professor," I replied. "I—I should go. I'll just—avoid him. Yes. I'll avoid him. I can handle it. I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time. I should go."

He got to his feet, dusting off the front of his robes.

"Of course," he said as I reached behind me for the doorknob. "Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Miss Granger. I'll be sure to let you know should there be any new developments in your…situation."

My goodbye was stilted and short, and I hid in my dormitory the entire rest of the afternoon.

I didn't know what else to do. I had no idea what I was supposed to do.

OOO

Two days later, neither Abraxas nor Tom Riddle had made any effort to speak to me—Abraxas' ego was bruised, his gaze systematically averted whenever I tried to approach him. Riddle, however, merely seemed uninterested. It was as if Saturday had never even happened.

"Now, who can tell me how long it takes to brew a proper Polyjuice potion?" Slughorn asked cheerfully.

I scoffed, shaking my head. Snape wouldn't have wasted time like this. Polyjuice? Seriously? We weren't fifth-years. I glanced around the class impatiently. Why wasn't anyone responding?

Riddle was sitting to my left, looking bored and tapping his fingers quietly against the scarred wooden tabletop, the sound quick and rhythmic. Lestrange was on my other side, leaning backwards, a petulant scowl firmly in place as he waited for someone to answer Slughorn's question. Abraxas was behind us, long legs stretched out underneath his table, feet resting comfortably on the bottom of my chair. There was the faint scratching of quill on parchment as someone across the room decided to start writing down the instructions Slughorn had put on the blackboard.

I was suddenly irritated.

And then, before I could stop myself, I raised my hand. Next to me, Riddle had stopped fidgeting, his gaze piercing, unwavering, into the side of my face as he watched me.

"Oh, wonderful! Miss Granger!"

I gritted my teeth.

"The potion itself only takes a little over twenty-four hours to brew, but if you take into account the specific preparations for some of the ingredients, you'll need about a month from start to finish," I recited dutifully.

"Correct! Ten points to Slytherin! Very _good_, Miss Granger!"

Slughorn's enthusiasm was grating. Riddle, though, continued to stare at me. Abruptly, he yanked out a piece of parchment from his bag and picked up a quill, scribbling out a note before sliding it over to me.

_Are you going to start answering questions in class now to prove to me that you're not stupid?_

I frowned and hastily drafted a response.

_Hardly. I just want him to get on with the lesson._

He cocked his head to the side as he wrote his reply.

_Why? Are you interested in impersonating someone? Macmillan, possibly?_

I frowned. Was he…trying to be funny? _What_? I chewed on the end of my quill as I thought about what to write back.

_Why would I want to do that?_

He smiled deviously.

_Well, Malfoy probably wouldn't be so keen on getting you in a broom closet if you looked like her, would he?_

I stifled my laughter.

_That's a good point. I'll have to nick a sample before class is over. _

He glanced over at me slyly.

_You're assuming anyone besides me is going to brew this correctly. That's a gross overestimation of our classmates' abilities, I promise you._

I sniffed at his arrogance.

_Oh, please. I successfully brewed Polyjuice as a second-year. It isn't even hard._

He arched a supercilious brow.

_Is this your way of telling me that you're only half as incompetent as I think you are?_

I rolled my eyes.

_I'm certain I don't care either way, Riddle._

He snorted quietly.

_You should._

I scrunched my nose up.

_Really? And why is that?_

He scrawled his response slowly. Pointedly.

_Because I'm not going to take your silly little threats very seriously if I think that you're stupid. I think we both know what that means._

I gazed down at the note, not really seeing it. I gingerly picked up my quill. I put it back down. I flexed my fingers. And then I crumpled the parchment into a ball, stuffing it unceremoniously into the bottom of my bag.

He didn't look at me again.

OOO

Later that day, I was hurrying down the corridor that led from my dormitory to the common room, twenty minutes late for dinner, when I heard them.

"—the fuck are you playing at, Malfoy?"

"What do you mean, _what am I playing at_? I could ask you the same thing, you know. It's fucking creepy the way you follow her around. The way you stare at her. Did you think no one would notice?"

I jerked backwards at the sound of loud, furious voices, pressing myself into the icy cold wall and peeking around the corner. The common room was almost entirely empty. Tom Riddle was standing in front of the fireplace, his expression ferocious, his gaze trained on Abraxas, who was glaring back at him with his arms crossed over his chest. _What the fuck_?

"Who told you to give her the ring?"

Abraxas smirked.

"Jealous, Tom?"

Riddle had his hands around Abraxas' throat so fast I barely had time to blink.

"Have you forgotten who I am, Malfoy?" he demanded softly. I felt my skin prickle with unease. His tone was deadly.

"N—no, of course—of course not," Abraxas managed to choke out, his face turning pink. He didn't try to fight, I noticed dimly.

"Who told you to do it?" Riddle asked again, his eyes flashing, his thumbs pressing down into Abraxas' windpipe. "We both know what those rings do. Why would you give her one?"

Abraxas shook his head frantically.

"No—no one told me to," he stammered. "I just—like her. That's it. I swear."

Riddle snorted before releasing him.

"You're an abysmal liar, Malfoy."

Abraxas massaged his neck and winced.

"I'm not fucking lying," he argued quietly. "But—if you really want to know—she won't fucking touch me. Lestrange thought she might be—oh, I don't know—_waiting_, or something. For marriage. It was his idea. Thought if I, you know, made my intentions clear…"

Riddle arched a brow. My lips parted in surprise.

"You'd be willing to _marry_ the girl just to get into her knickers? Are you stupid? No, don't answer that. We both know that you are."

My cheeks grew warm. Abraxas flushed indignantly.

"She's better than Macmillan, isn't she?" he retorted.

Riddle laughed. There was little humor in it.

"God, you're a fucking idiot. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."

Abraxas glanced down at the floor before replying.

"She took the ring, though. Put it on and everything," he said smugly.

"She didn't know what it meant," Riddle responded sharply. "I had to explain it to her after you tried to maul her outside the quidditch pitch. She's planning on returning it."

I narrowed my eyes thoughtfully. Was Riddle _warning him off_?

"Bullshit. You're just jealous. You want her for yourself."

Riddle offered a cold smile.

"You're awfully rude today, aren't you, Malfoy?"

Abraxas paled.

"I didn't mean—"

"No," Riddle interrupted. "You've forgotten your place. Do you honestly think I care where you stick your cock? She won't touch you, with or without that ring on her finger. But keep in mind who she is—who she's _related_ to. You have a fucking job to do at the end of the year, and she's not the type you get to take with you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Abraxas' jaw tightened.

"She'll never fuck you, you know," he spat.

Riddle shrugged indifferently.

"I'm heartbroken, I'm sure," he sneered. "But that isn't what I asked you."

The tension between them seemed to multiply exponentially as they stared at each other. The fire hissed angrily.

"I understand."

"Wonderful."

Without another word, Abraxas stalked out of the common room. Riddle sighed in exasperation and turned towards the hallway I was hiding in. I held my breath. Surely he didn't know—

"You can come out now, Granger. I know you're there."

I groaned and crept out of the shadows.

"How did you know I was there?"

He looked vaguely insulted.

"Unlike Malfoy, I'm not oblivious to my surroundings," he said, slowly approaching me. He stopped about a foot from where I stood. It felt too close.

"What were you talking about when you said that the ring meant something?" I asked, pursing my lips.

He glanced down at my finger.

"You're still wearing it, I see," he remarked, not answering my question.

I made a protective fist with my hand, hiding the ring.

"That isn't what I asked," I bit out, consciously mimicking what he'd said to Abraxas mere minutes earlier.

He studied me, his expression unreadable.

"Are you bothered by what he said?"

I furrowed my brow.

"I already knew he wanted to shag me," I replied reasonably. "He didn't really try very hard to hide that fact."

"Which is unfortunate for Malfoy, since I'm fairly sure you _don't _want to shag him," he said, snorting.

I swallowed.

"That's not really any of your business, is it?" I shot back shakily.

He smirked.

"Oh, I don't know," he drawled, moving closer. "Isn't it?"

I gasped.

Because something was swirling in my stomach, something noxious, toxic, an acidic sort of dread—it went beyond a physical ache, it went deeper, thicker, a pulsating, nauseating knot settling like an anchor in the darkest, bleakest corners of my body—because Tom fucking Riddle was looking at me _that _way, like he wanted to spin me around, flip the back of my skirt up, and rip my knickers off. And I wouldn't—_couldn't_—label the peculiar spasms in my abdomen as anything but apprehension. I was not excited. I was not pressing my thighs together, craving the friction, and I was _not _staring back at him, waiting, hoping, needing—I was _not_. I could not.

Except I was breathing too fast. His eyes went to my lips. My tongue darted out. His nostrils flared.

And then he moved.

Slightly.

It was just a step.

Half a step, even.

But he was suddenly close enough to touch, close enough to _smell_, and—he smelled musky and masculine, and he didn't wear cologne, and there was a faint hint of something else, something fresh and clean, like aftershave and soap, and I realized that there must be something horribly, horrendously wrong with me, because he smelled so fucking _good_, so good that my brain went blank and all I could think to do was take a deep, shuddering breath, desperate to savor the scent, desperate to savor _him_.

"Was Malfoy right?"

His voice was a hoarse, husky rumble, invading—no, _assaulting_—the silence.

"What?" I asked, finally meeting his eyes. God, but I couldn't fucking look away, could I? "Right about what?"

"He said you would never fuck me, Granger," he murmured, an insolent smirk flitting across his face. "Was he right?"

Some small, logical part of my brain screamed at me to leave. To sprint for the door and make my way to dinner and forget all about the rather embarrassingly sticky state of my knickers. But my feet were glued to the floor. All I could focus on was the way my skirt whispered across the front of my legs, my fingers limp and helpless as they brushed against the soft skin of my thighs, almost of their own accord—and he was standing so close, always so fucking close, I could reach out and run my hand down his chest if I fucking wanted to, it would be so easy, and I wondered, immediately, if it would be as hard and as warm and as perfectly chiseled as it looked, and I wondered what he would do if I did, if I unbuttoned his shirt and tore it off his shoulders and traced every single long, sensuous line of muscle with my tongue—

"I—I don't—"

"I don't think he was right," he continued, ignoring my feeble attempt to reply. "I think you'd fuck me right here if I wanted you to. Isn't that right?"

My mouth went dry. Some never-used muscle in my lower abdomen clenched, tightly. I couldn't think. I wouldn't think. I couldn't fucking think.

"I want to know, Hermione," he went on silkily, his voice low. "Are you wet for me?"

Oh, it would be so easy to say yes. To nod my head and reach for the zipper on his trousers—he never wore a belt, he wasn't wearing a belt, this was important, of course it was fucking important—and let him make this unfamiliar tension snap, disappear, go away—

I blinked.

The door to the common room was opening. I could see the handle turning. Dinner was over.

And the moment was lost.

Our connection severed.

I stumbled backwards. He looked dazed.

_Bloody fucking hell_.

OOO


	7. VI

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: As most of you have probably figured out, this story is going to be exponentially smuttier than anything else I've ever posted here. If this bothers you, you probably shouldn't continue reading, haha. Nothing truly explicit happens in this chapter, but it's only going to get more and more graphic as the story continues. This is mostly just a warning—sex is going to be a very important part of how Hermione and Tom's relationship progresses, and I really don't want to have to apologize for that later on. Anyway. I'm glad so many of you liked the last chapter (and agree with my assessment of Tom's sexual experience, haha).

Okay. Now I want to say something. A couple of people have commented on my Hermione being "ridiculously out of character"—however, a couple of other people have commended me on my ability to write her so realistically. Obviously, I agree with the latter, but I do understand those of you who don't. I think a big part of the problem is that everyone—and I do mean everyone—has a different take on canon Hermione. I don't really _read_ fanfiction, but I do occasionally take a peek when I'm curious, and I can say with unwavering certainty that there are quite a few Hermione stereotypes that run rampant in the community as a whole. I despise preachy, stubborn, pretentious, "fiercely independent" Hermione more than I can adequately express using real English words. Seriously. Not kidding. She's fucking hateful. That said, I understand completely why some authors might extrapolate those characteristics from the information we're given about her in the books. I just can't bring myself to write her that way.

And I realize that was kind of a shitty attempt at defending myself and my writing, but I'm hesitant to really try to—like I said, it's a matter of perspective. I personally think Hermione is a wonderful character, but she isn't perfect and I always got the impression there was much more going on with her than JK Rowling ever bothered to delve into. She was very clearly capable of strong, reactionary emotions and impulsivity—that particular aspect of her personality is one that I'm currently exploiting rather gratuitously. But she was also famously and almost pathologically obsessed with rules and structure, which is a trait that implies she is not necessarily very good at thinking for herself. (How many of you are outraged that I said that? Haha.) Because of that, I don't think it's out of the realm of possibility that she finds herself confused and scared and uncertain given the situation I've placed her in. In fact, I think the way I've written her is pretty spot-on.

ANYWAY. I apologize for the length of this (for those of you who managed to get through all of that, haha). I didn't write this to be argumentative, because I really do understand where some of you are coming from, but I just wanted to explain my point of view a little bit better. I don't expect all of you to agree with me.

Oh—and I'm aware I've taken an unconscionable number of liberties with canon history, haha. If you've read my Dramione, you know that I'm pretty arbitrary about which aspects of the Harry Potter universe I choose to include in my fanfiction.

All of my stories are technically considered AU. This one is no different. I'm not certain on the etiquette of warning people about that—it's_ fanfiction_, so in my opinion anything that isn't a blatant rewrite of the books can be construed as AU. Ugh. I'm bad at this. I received three PM's after the last chapter that were more or less comprehensive lists of every single way I'd bastardized and disrespected canon history, which confused me a little bit—but I honestly didn't realize people were bothered by it. So…sorry?

Also, for those of you who are interested—I'm working on a Dramione one-shot right now, and will hopefully have it posted within the next couple of weeks. (I desperately miss writing Draco. What of it?) Enjoy!

OOO

**CHAPTER SIX**

_September 21, 1944_

_ I want her._

_ I __**want**__ her._

_ Like __**that**__._

_ And last night, in the common room—_

_ If those third-years hadn't come back from dinner when they did—_

_**Fuck**__._

_ I __**wanted**__ her. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to slip my hand underneath her skirt and push her knickers aside and—God, what if she wasn't even __**wearing **__knickers? What if she was sitting next to me in Potions, passing notes and answering questions, and all the while, the entire time, there was nothing __**there**__, nothing to stop me from reaching over and finding out if she was as hot and tight and perfect as I've been imagining?_

_ Her skirt rides up her thighs when she crosses her legs._

_ It would be so easy—_

_**Fuck.**_

_I can't—_

_ She licked her lips. It was innocent. She didn't mean anything by it. But when I saw her tongue, so pink, so small, so __**wet**__, all I could think about was what it would feel like swirling around my cock, my hands buried in her hair, yanking her closer, up and down, faster, harder, fucking her mouth—_

_ Would she let me do that? Would she like it? She would, I think. I can tell. _

_**Buggering fucking fuck**__—_

_ God._

_ This is bad._

_ Sex is an unnecessary distraction—a weakness. I can control this. I can control __**myself**__. She's just a girl. That's all. Just a girl. There's a hundred of them in this school, all with the requisite…parts—she's nothing special. _

_Just another girl._

_ I can control this. I can control __**her**__._

_ But she smells like raspberries and vanilla and the air outside, right after it rains—clean and fresh, like something you want to savor. Something you want to drown in. And her skin—it's almost magnetically soft. I want to taste it. I want to taste __**her**__. _

_ I want—_

_ I've always been very good at getting what I want. _

_ No._

_ No._

_ That—this—__**she**__—is not an option._

_ No._

_ Malfoy was lying about the ring. Lestrange might have put the idea in his head—lifelong commitment in exchange for her virginity; it's not exactly original, is it?—but that ring came from the Malfoy family vaults. The enchantments on it are ancient, powerful, and beyond the scope of Malfoy's comprehension. In fact, I don't think he's even aware of the existence of half of them. _

_God._

_Inbreeding did absolutely no intellectual favors for him._

_ Granger doesn't suspect anything, of course. She seems content to believe that he was merely playing the part of an overzealous, oversexed schoolboy. Her naivety really is appalling._

_ But—_

_ If Lestrange actually __**is **__behind Malfoy's rather clumsily executed defection—he needs to be reminded of where his loyalties lie. I've been distracted the past couple of weeks. I can admit that. I have been neglecting my Knights. But as far as they know, she's Dumbledore's niece; risking exposure of any kind by plotting something that directly involves her is beyond idiotic. I'll have to call a meeting. I've worked too hard to get them all on my side—six years of listening to Nott and Avery and Lestrange rant about the influx of mudbloods in __**their **__world has been both annoying and mind-numbingly grating. But they must continue to trust me. I cannot afford to have my plans jeopardized._

_ I'm just so __**close**__._

_ I do have a theory about Granger, however. About her secret. It seems preposterous, even in my head, but—it would explain so much. Her skittishness; her unprecedented knowledge of both myself and my…extracurricular activities; her dependence on Dumbledore. God, but he's a sneaky, manipulative bastard when he wants to be. And if my suspicions are correct, he's found an insurmountably useful weapon in the girl. _

_Although—_

_He doesn't know that I'm aware of his connection to Grindewald. _

_And if I'm right about her—and __**him**__—then she's in danger. I'd warn her—she'd be incredibly valuable, after all, especially to me—but I doubt she'd trust anything I said. She dislikes me. Rather intensely. And she seems to be stubborn about it. It's infuriating._

_ Slughorn's having a party this Friday. _

_ I wonder if he invited __**her**__._

_-TMR_

OOO

"What is _that_?" Melania Macmillan's sharp, shrill voice echoed loudly in the small, white-tiled bathroom. I sighed heavily before putting down my hairbrush and turning to look at her.

"What is _what_, Melania?" I asked tiredly. It was the morning after my—_encounter_—with Riddle in the common room, and I was exhausted. I hadn't slept well. It was all his fault, of course.

"That ring," she said bluntly. "It looks like—but it can't be. He wouldn't have."

I glanced down at my finger. I shouldn't have still been wearing the ring. I didn't know why I was. But giving it back to Abraxas had stopped being simple and straightforward—taking it off felt permanent and meaningful in a way that it absolutely shouldn't have, and I was rather stubbornly hanging onto it to prove a point to Riddle. _He _was the one who'd had to tell me what it meant in the first place, after all.

"Abraxas gave it to me on Saturday," I replied casually, fully aware of how much my response would infuriate her. I turned back to the mirror.

"But—but—that means—"

"That he's declared his intentions, yes," I finished somewhat smugly. Oh, but I shouldn't have been enjoying her distress _quite_ so much.

Her face turned an alarming shade of red as she floundered for a reply.

"But you're not even _pretty_!" she exclaimed, aghast.

I shrugged and tied my hair back with an emerald green ribbon.

"It would seem that Abraxas doesn't agree with you on that point," I said easily.

She sputtered. I smirked.

"Has he spoken to your uncle?" she demanded.

I flattened my hands over the front of my skirt and moved towards the bathroom door.

"Not sure," I replied noncommittally.

She scowled darkly.

"I don't believe you," she snapped, reaching for my hand as I tried to brush past her. She roughly twisted my wrist to get a better look at the ring. I gasped at the harsh, unexpected pain. "He barely knows you. He wouldn't—he would never—let me _see_!"

I jerked away from her.

"Do _not_ touch me!" I hissed, stalking towards my bed and picking up my bag. "_You_ might be delusional, but that doesn't mean that _I_ have to put up with it."

She glared at my retreating form.

"Did you slip him a love potion, then? Cast a spell? I bet you know all sorts of illegal magic, being related to Dumbledore," she taunted menacingly, following me out the door and down the hallway that led to the common room.

"Not all of us need love potions to get a boy to look twice at us," I spat, barreling past a throng of giggling fifth-years. I almost didn't notice Abraxas' extra-large presence next to the common room door.

"Oh!" I cried, coming to a halt. "Abraxas. I didn't—I didn't see you."

He grimaced, his eyes flicking nervously between me and Melania.

"I was just waiting for you, love," he replied, automatically reaching to take my bag off my shoulder. "I thought we might be able to skip breakfast and—um—have a bit of a talk?"

I wet my lips before responding.

"Of course," I said softly, offering him a small smile. "We can take a walk outside. It's still nice, I think."

He shot me a grateful, lopsided grin before holding open the door. Melania huffed noisily behind us. He ignored her and propelled me through the dungeons, his hand sticky and warm against my elbow. We stayed silent until we reached the entrance hall and Melania veered away from us. He then glanced down at me, his expression hesitant. I unconsciously rolled his ring around my finger.

"Look, Hermione…" he trailed off anxiously.

"Should we go to the lake?" I asked carefully.

He nodded. I led him outside, our footsteps crunching awkwardly over the thin layer of leaves that had only recently begun to fall. We were halfway to the lake when he finally spoke.

"I thought you knew what it meant," he blurted out, kicking at the ground.

I frowned.

"It's a _ring_, Abraxas," I replied. "I knew, _vaguely_, what it might mean, but I didn't—I mean, I've only known you for a few weeks. I didn't think…"

He sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"It's okay if you aren't sure yet," he said seriously. "I can—well, I can understand that. But I thought—was it because I didn't ask?"

I furrowed my brow.

"What do you mean?"

He looked pained.

"When I kissed you," he mumbled, coming to a stop several feet away from the edge of the lake. "Were you just surprised?"

I winced. God, but I didn't want to have this conversation.

"Oh," I murmured. "_That_."

"Yeah," he said wryly, staring out at the water. It was unnervingly calm. "_That_."

I twisted the ring off my finger and held it tightly in my hand.

"I—care for you very much, Abraxas," I said gently. "You've been nothing but wonderful to me ever since I got here. I couldn't have asked for a better friend."

His jaw clenched.

"But you don't want me as anything more than that," he said, his voice eerily flat.

I lowered my eyes.

"Did I ever tell you that you remind me quite a lot of someone I used to go to school with?" I asked quietly.

He pursed his lips.

"No. Who?"

"He—well, he was my best friend," I said wistfully. "One of them, I mean. I had two. He—meant a lot to me. _Means _a lot to me. And you're so much like him, Abraxas. Really. Loyal and funny and protective and—and sweet, in your own way. Sometimes, when you're talking, I can close my eyes and imagine that he's still sitting next to me, begging me not to make him study."

"Did you ever..." he asked uncertainly.

I snorted.

"When we were younger, we thought we might end up like that," I replied sardonically. "But we kissed, just the one time, and it was an unmitigated disaster. No. Our relationship was strictly platonic."

He had turned to face me, his expression oddly tender.

"What happened to him? I know you never talk about—before you came here—and I never ask, because I know it bothers you, but—you're making it sound like he—"

I forced a smile and thought about how to answer.

"He died," I interrupted bluntly. "They both did. It's one of the reasons I came here."

He studied me intently.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," he said gruffly. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that. If I could make it better…if I could fix it…I would, love. You know that, don't you?"

My throat felt thick and tight as I tried to swallow.

"Yeah," I said. "I know that."

He looked at me for a long moment, his hand outstretched, as if he wanted to touch me, comfort me, but was unsure if he should try.

"So that's why you can't see me like—like I want you to?"

_No_. That wasn't why. The real reason had much more to do with Tom Riddle's errant, naughty whispering in the common room—but I could hardly tell Abraxas that.

"More or less," I hedged uncomfortably.

He straightened his shoulders.

"Then we'll just be friends for now," he said firmly. "I can do that."

I squeezed my hands into fists and felt the ring dig into my palm.

"I should give you this back, though," I replied, holding out the ring. "It isn't right for me to keep it."

He narrowed his eyes.

"No," he said quickly. "No. Keep it. It doesn't have to mean anything. I'd like you to keep it. Maybe eventually—it's a gift, love. That's all. I don't want it back."

"Abraxas—"

"Please keep it? For me?" he pleaded.

I cocked my head to the side.

"Alright," I said slowly. "But it doesn't mean anything, right? I'm not—well, I'm not _agreeing_ to anything, am I?"

He visibly relaxed.

"No, of course not, love," he replied. "I never got around to talking to your uncle, so it really is just a ring for now."

I glanced down. The tiny emerald in the center of the ring twinkled in the early-morning sunlight. I put it back on my finger.

"I—I see."

He cleared his throat.

"So—ah—Slughorn's having a party on Friday," he said with an awkward chuckle. "Slug Club. Did anyone explain that to you? He has favorites—Tom's one, obviously, Slughorn thinks he's going to be Minister one day—and he has these dinners every so often, nothing really all that fun, but, well, it's something different, you know, and I'm always invited—so—ah—did you want to come? With me, I mean? As friends, of course. I wouldn't—well, I know how you feel now, so—yeah, as friends, then?"

I inwardly cringed. I knew that I shouldn't say yes. I shouldn't encourage him. But he was my only friend. He was the only person in 1944 whose ulterior motives were _understandable_. He made sense. He reminded me of Ron. I couldn't push him away. I couldn't do that to him. I couldn't do it to myself. I needed him. I needed the easy, uncomplicated comfort that his presence provided. I stared at the ring for several minutes before looking back up at him.

"Sure," I finally answered. "We can go as friends."

He held my hand as we walked back to the castle.

I didn't stop him.

OOO

It was ten minutes to curfew and I was stumbling tiredly out of the library after yet another night of wasted research. The hallway I was in was dark and empty, the torches on the walls sputtering ominously and casting misshapen shadows on the flagstone floor. My muscles tensed when I heard footsteps approaching me from behind.

"Granger?"

I stopped walking.

"Riddle," I said resignedly, turning to face him. "What are you doing here?"

"Rounds," he replied evasively.

"Ah."

"What are you doing out so late?"

"I still have ten minutes till curfew," I said defensively. "I was in the library."

"What for?"

I fiddled with the ring on my finger.

"Nothing important."

His gaze sharpened.

"You're still wearing that?"

"It would appear so, yes."

"Why didn't you give it back?" he demanded curtly. "Did you change your mind?"

"What does it matter to you?" I retorted.

He clenched his jaw.

"It _doesn't_," he ground out.

"_Clearly_."

He glared. I arched a brow. The silence stretched on.

"He didn't want it back," I finally admitted. "He said that it didn't have to mean anything, but he wanted me to keep it."

His eyes narrowed.

"You're still wearing it, though."

I shrugged.

"It's pretty."

"It's _Malfoy's_," he spat derisively.

"_Again_—what does it matter to you?" I hissed, suddenly furious. "You won't even tell me what the stupid thing does! _A betrothal gift_, you said. Like that _means _anything at all to me!"

He spun away from me, his posture stiff. I watched him curiously.

"Were you invited to Slughorn's party?" he barked.

"Why are you changing the subject?" I asked.

He turned around. His expression was dark.

"Were you or not?"

I sneered.

"Abraxas invited me," I replied, my tone cool. "We're going as friends."

He scoffed—but then his face went absolutely, unbelievably blank. It was unnerving.

"_Friends_," he mused coldly. "How...heartwarming."

"Heartwarming?" I repeated uneasily.

He smirked. My stomach dropped.

"He isn't your _friend_, Granger," he drawled.

"Of course he is," I said quickly.

"Really? Do you know what he says about you when we're all in our dormitory?"

I sniffed.

"If you're asking if I know how depraved and disgusting eighteen year-old boys can be when you leave them alone together, the answer is an unequivocal, resounding _yes_," I replied testily.

Amusement flashed across his features.

"Not all of us are depraved and disgusting, Granger."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," I said matter-of-factly. "Creating horcruxes is a fairly disgusting practice, after all."

He snorted.

"Yes, and you know _all_ about that from the numerous horcruxes _you've_ made, I take it?"

"It doesn't matter how I know about it."

"Of course it doesn't. I'm just supposed to take your word for it that dear Uncle Albus confides his deepest, darkest suspicions about me to his underage niece. Tell me, Hermione, do you think that I'm stupid?"

I glared spitefully at him.

"Not that I don't wish you were, but no. I _know_ that you aren't stupid."

"Then why do you continue to say things that you _must know_ will do nothing but make me more curious about you?"

I chewed the inside of my mouth. _Why, indeed_?

"Honestly, I just want you to leave me alone. Is that really so much to ask?"

He quirked his lips.

"Why is it that you're so desperate for _me_ to leave you alone, but Malfoy tries to trick you into marrying him and you're still willing to be his date to a party?"

"We're going as _friends_."

"Right. _Friends_," he echoed disbelievingly.

"This conversation is ridiculous."

"Do you even _want_ to go with him?" he asked.

"I said yes, didn't I?"

He scowled. I fidgeted nervously.

"That doesn't really answer my question."

"And this _really_ isn't any of your business!"

And that was when I made the mistake of looking up.

There was a peculiar heat in his eyes—incendiary, rather like a slowly burning fire, crackling sleepily, uncertainly, its warmth more of a gradual sort of possession, the sort that takes you entirely by surprise, nipping at your nerve-endings before enveloping you forcefully, _dramatically_—it wasn't all at once, and it wasn't overwhelming, but it was _there_, hot and heavy and languorous, and it made me feel scared, it made me feel—

_Hunted_.

As if he was a wily, overlarge predator, and I was his prey.

"You don't want to go to that party with Malfoy, Hermione," he murmured. "Do you?"

_No_. _No_, _I don't want to go with Malfoy. _

"Of course I do," I whispered tremulously. "We're friends. We'll—have fun."

He shook his head. The corridor suddenly felt much too small. I took a step backwards. My body hit the wall. It was jarring.

"Fun," he repeated, smirking. "How do you define _fun_, sweetheart?"

I flinched. There was something so desperately _wrong_ about hearing Tom Riddle use sugary sweet endearments, especially in relation to _me_. I swallowed noisily at the thought. His eyes traced the motion in my throat. He looked hungry.

"The same way everyone else does, I expect," I mumbled, pressing myself—hard—into the frigid stone wall. I was too hot, even underneath the thin cotton of my Oxford, and the contrast was abrasive—no, it wasn't that. Anything but that.

It was staggering.

It was _erotic_.

It was—

It wasn't. It wasn't. It absolutely wasn't.

I shivered.

He licked his lips.

"I don't know about that," he said, moving closer. I released a helpless, hapless breath. "For example—_my _definition of fun has taken a rather surprising turn lately."

I wanted to stop him. I wanted to run away. I wanted to pretend that this wasn't happening, not with him, especially not with him, anyone but him, fucking _anyone_—but then I shifted uncomfortably, and my skirt got caught on the wall, and my bare skin was exposed, the back of my thigh rubbing intimately against the rough grey stone—and I understood, in that brief, endless moment, that all-important half-second where everything that I thought I knew about myself lurched and swayed and made a mess of rearranging itself—that I didn't want to stop him. I didn't want to run away. I didn't want to pretend that this wasn't happening.

No.

Not even a little bit.

I wanted to touch him. I wanted _him_ to touch _me_. I wanted his hands and his mouth and his tongue on—_in_—unspeakable parts of my body. It would be good. It would be better than good. It would be worth it, worth all of it—the shame, the recrimination, the self-loathing. Wouldn't it? Wouldn't he?

"Really?" I rasped. My mouth was dry. I shouldn't ask. I shouldn't fucking ask. "How so?"

He leaned forward, placing a large, elegant hand on the wall above my shoulder.

"Well," he purred, his gaze sweeping purposefully across my face. "I rather think it might be _fun_ to fuck you against this wall. With your legs wrapped around my waist and my cock buried in your cunt, so deep and so hard that you can't help but scream. Anyone could walk by and catch us. Would you like that, Hermione? Getting caught? Getting _fucked_?"

I finally shut my eyes. It was too much. He was too much. He was a morally repugnant sociopath whispering dirty words in my ear in the middle of a dark, empty hallway. I shouldn't want him to continue. I shouldn't want _him_. And I didn't. I didn't want him. I didn't want any of it. I was sensible. I was logical. I didn't give into reckless, incomprehensible impulses. I was a fucking _virgin_, for God's sake. I was saving this. I was saving myself. I was saving the entire experience for something—_someone_—better. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve me. I didn't even want him. I didn't even want _this_.

Except there was an aching, pulsing sort of emptiness between my thighs that suggested otherwise, and even if I was a virgin, even if I'd never actually felt it—I knew what it meant.

"If I said yes," I replied slowly, dragging my eyes up to meet his. He didn't blink. I didn't breathe. "If I said yes—would you do it? Would you fuck me, Tom?"

Something that looked a lot like surprise flickered across his face. I felt an unfamiliar surge of triumph. He hadn't expected me to say that. He probably hadn't expected me to respond at all. I almost smiled.

"I don't—I mean—I didn't—" he stammered. His shoulders—so much broader than my own—stiffened above me. He didn't move back, though. He never fucking moved back.

"No? Were you just trying to make me uncomfortable again?" I asked, reaching a hand up between us to toy with the end of my tie. His jaw tightened. He still didn't step away.

"Are you asking me, Hermione? To fuck you?" he demanded, his voice deep. He'd recovered from the initial shock. He'd processed my response and was now moving on, moving past it. He was back in control. "Is that it? You want me to make you come?"

His head had dipped lower. He didn't seem to notice. I did, though, of course I did, and I was struck by a sudden grasping _need_ to find out what his lips would feel like, taste like—I wanted him to kiss me, touch me, fuck me, and I wanted it _now_, right then and right there, but no, no, not him, never him, anyone but him—

"Why would I want that, Riddle? Why would I want a _murderer_ to—do any of those things?" I asked mockingly. My palms were damp. My heart felt like a lukewarm fist was squeezing it, gripping it, hard, harder, so hard I couldn't think of anything else—not his breath on my face; not the luxurious chunk of wavy black hair falling across his forehead, uncharacteristically out of place; and not his eyes, so dark, stupidly dark, deeply dark and fathomless and fucking dangerous, eyes I wanted to stare at and into, eyes I couldn't look away from, eyes framed with long, thick lashes that would have been feminine on anyone else—God, _anyone_ else, why couldn't it be anyone else—but not on him, not with the strong sure masculine shape of his face, not with his square jaw and sturdy chin and the rugged, sensuous timbre of his voice.

"Because you find me just as fascinating as I find you," he replied, a strange smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Because you know things about me that you shouldn't, and you want to know the rest, don't you? Isn't that it, Hermione? You want to know the _murderer_. You want the _murderer_ to touch you. To take you right here, right against the wall. Not Malfoy. Definitely not Malfoy."

I dropped my eyes. The way he was staring at me—I couldn't. I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand the intensity of it—of him, of his expression, of the way words seemed to slide, rhythmic and smooth and uninhibited, across his tongue, like melted butter.

I just couldn't.

And so I studied his shirt. There was a faint, barely-there ink stain on the collar. It was grey, as if he'd tried to wash it out and hadn't quite been successful. If he hadn't been standing so close, I would probably have never noticed it.

"I never said that," I argued quietly.

"No," he mused. "You didn't."

And then—

His hand.

His fucking hand brushed against my chin, gently tilting it up, forcing me to look at him, forcing me to face him, forcing me to acknowledge everything he was saying and implying and expecting—even though I didn't want to, didn't need to—even though I no longer had the energy to pretend that this was okay, alright, normal.

Because it wasn't.

It wasn't okay.

It wasn't alright.

It wasn't normal.

And I didn't know what sort of backwards biological response was making me want him this badly, so badly, but I wanted it to fucking _go away_, quickly, immediately, like it hadn't ever existed, and I wanted his hand to keep going, to slide down my jaw, down my throat, over my breasts, I wanted to know, just for a moment, what it would feel like if he _did _touch me—no, I didn't, I couldn't, I just needed—I just needed—I needed to _wake up_, remember that this was real, he was real, remember that this wasn't just another nightmare, not even close, and my actions had consequences, I couldn't have him, I couldn't touch him, I couldn't fucking _do this_, not now, not with him standing there, so close, his fingertips warm against my skin—

I shoved him away.

His eyebrows flew up.

"I don't _want_ you, Riddle," I managed to hiss. "And you really shouldn't keep accosting me in abandoned hallways like this. It isn't proper."

"Proper?" he repeated incredulously.

"_Yes_," I said angrily. "_Proper_. You can't just—_say things like that_ and practically _hold me hostage_ and—and _what_, expect me to just _let you_?"

His lip curled.

"You weren't really putting up much of a fight, were you?"

I flushed a dark, furious red.

"Just leave me alone, Riddle. We really don't have much to say to each other."

He laughed.

"Don't we, though?" he asked nastily. "You know things you shouldn't, Granger. Dangerous things. Things that could get you hurt. You don't want that to happen, do you?"

I reached for my wand and gripped it tightly.

"I'm not sure," I replied quietly. "Do _you _want something to happen to your diary? Or perhaps the ring you keep in your bedside table?"

He stumbled backwards.

"How—how do you know?" he gasped.

I smirked. He looked stricken.

"Just leave me alone, Riddle."

And then I pushed past him and walked steadily down the hallway.

I could almost pretend I couldn't feel him watching every single step I took.

OOO


	8. VII

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: _Finally_. Their first kiss! It only took me 30,000+ words, right? Haha. I wanted to thank all of you that took a second to let me know how you feel about Hermione—and how I've chosen to write her. It's nice to hear that I'm not the only one who thinks my portrayal of her is somewhat accurate. Anyway. There might be the faintest hint of a lemon in the beginning of the next chapter—I wanted their first kiss to have something at least marginally romantic about it, so I chose to end this chapter on a sweeter, less sexual (haha) note. I hope you like it. Enjoy!

OOO

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

_September 23, 1944_

_ I called a meeting last night._

_ I called a fucking meeting, and fucking Malfoy didn't fucking bother to fucking show up._

_ No. Of course he didn't._

_ He was with __**her**__._

_ His date to Slughorn's party. Oh, sorry—his friend. __**Honestly**__. Is she stupid?_

_ She isn't, I don't think._

_ No. Not at all._

_ Although I'm sorely tempted to track __**him**__ down and use him for target practice—there's an excruciating Unforgivable I have a particular affinity for, after all—I'm too angry. I wouldn't stop. I know I wouldn't be able to stop. And permanently damaging him isn't an option just yet. _

_ No._

_ I'll have to wait for __**that**__._

_ Besides, she'd probably never speak to me again if I hurt him. She appears to be inexplicably soft-hearted when it comes to the great blond prat._

_ Not to mention—she knows too much. I'm not __**entirely**__ surprised about the diary; the accident with the Chamber and the muggle-born wasn't a secret, and even though Dippet was senile enough to blame it on the half-breed, Dumbledore seemed to know better. That she's aware I used a diary is alarming, but—_

_ Well. It's decidedly impractical to ponder __**how**__ she knows the things she does, isn't it? Especially since I'm fairly sure I'm right about her—about her secret. But I can't tell her that. Not yet. _

_ My ring, though—_

_ That's quite the mystery. I've gone to unimaginable lengths to make sure that no one knows about my errant embarrassment of a father—because that spineless fucking stain on my pedigree is shameful in a way that defies description. And despite the fact that the disgusting orphanage I grew up in gave me plenty of reasons to hate muggles, my father's narrow-minded disdain for me—for __**magic**__—was even more staggering. How can we possibly hope to coexist with people like him? People who see something extraordinary, something so much better than them, and want to call it evil? Unnatural? Want to blame their own fucking deficiencies on it?_

_ I digress._

_ He deserved to die. _

_ And while I hadn't planned on our rather extensive resemblance to one another—even now, looking the mirror is unpleasant, even disconcerting—I can confess that my first thought was that it might be beneficial._

_ It wasn't, obviously._

_ He looked right at me, right __**through**__ me, and—_

_ No._

_ Yes._

_ He deserved to die. All three of them did._

_ Granger, though. If she knows about the ring from that day—she might very well know about __**him**__. About them. About what I did. And if she does—_

_ Does it bother her? Does she understand? Assuming I'm correct about her, she has no living relatives to speak of. She's alone—an orphan. If anyone could understand, it would be someone like her. But does she? Could she?_

_ I'm baffled by my response to her. Everything about her—from her velvety, doe-brown eyes to the modest length of her skirts—screams innocence. Naivety. She's fragile, and I find it…engaging. I want to protect her. And the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that she needs protecting—Dumbledore is using her, that much is obvious, but for what I can't be sure. _

_ However—_

_ Malfoy needs to be taught a lesson._

_ I should find him before Slughorn's party this evening. _

_ Yes._

_ That's what I'll do._

_-TMR_

OOO

The dress was pretty—superfine emerald green silk with long sleeves and a dramatic empire waist. An elegant silver ribbon was tied directly underneath my breasts, its ends swishing delicately together, and a small black dragon was embroidered on the wrist of the left sleeve. Abraxas had had it delivered to me just that morning, a nondescript grey owl hastily dropping the large brown box directly on top of my breakfast. Riddle had scowled, aggressively digging his knife into the strawberry jam as I opened it, while Lestrange had looked between us with a curious expression, choosing to remain quiet. I had smiled, uncertain and uncomfortable, and thanked Abraxas.

Now, though, I was merely nervous. I had an awful feeling about the upcoming evening, a ludicrous sort of premonition that left me breathless and weak. It was nonsense, of course, and not entirely different from the constant anxiety that had plagued me for the past three weeks—but as I stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the front of the dress—really, it was quite pretty—I couldn't help but wish that I hadn't agreed to go to Slughorn's party.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door, bringing me out of my reflective trance.

"Yes?" I called out.

Melania Macmillan peeked in.

"You have a letter," she informed me snidely. "I left it on your bed."

I offered her a tense smile.

"Thank you," I replied, moving away from the mirror. "What time is it, do you know?"

She grimaced.

"Half-six," she said, spinning on her heel and stomping through our dormitory. "You still have thirty minutes before Abraxas will be here."

"Right. Thanks, then." I hesitated. "Are you going to the party?"

Her cheeks turned red.

"No," she sneered. "I wasn't invited. Slughorn only ever invites Riddle and his crowd, and unless one of _them_ decides they need a date, no one else goes. But it's rare for that to happen. You should count yourself lucky."

"Oh," I said, bemused. "I see. Doesn't—doesn't Riddle ever invite anyone, then?"

She sniffed.

"Riddle? He's never so much as looked twice at a girl," she replied, angrily plopping down onto her bed. "Which is a pity, isn't it?"

"What is?" I asked, picking up a creamy vellum envelope off of my pillow. It was unmarked.

"That Riddle's so uninterested in girls," she said matter-of-factly. Her face was pinched. "I mean, he's gorgeous, isn't he?"

I arched a brow, startled.

"You don't mean he's interested in _boys_," I said with no small measure of disbelief.

She scoffed.

"Of course he isn't. Look at him. He's pretty, but he's…well, _masculine_, isn't he? I just meant that it's annoying how bloody responsible he is. Constantly studying and spending time with his friends and helping the firsties find the bloody Transfiguration corridor. He's never dated anyone, you know. And he's had plenty of offers."

I ignored the small twinge of irritation that sprung up in my throat. Instead, I slid my finger under the flap of the envelope and removed a thick scrap of parchment.

"Right," I said, distracted. "Well, I'm sure he has his reasons."

She snorted in response. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention to the note in my hand:

_Hermione,_

_Meet me at the lake at 6:45. I have something I'd like to give you before we leave._

_-Abraxas_

I frowned.

"Melania," I said. "Who did you get this from?"

She stood up and stretched, eyeing me speculatively.

"Someone slid it under our door," she replied, heading towards the bathroom. "It was just on the floor. Why? What does it say?"

"Nothing really," I said, tossing it back on my bed. "Just Abraxas asking me to meet him. I should go, I suppose."

"He's doing something terribly romantic, isn't he?" she asked, holding open the bathroom door and glowering. "Of course he is. He's Abraxas. And _you're_ you. How maddening."

I shrugged.

"We're just friends, you know."

She glared at me.

"I'm _sure_."

And then she swept into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her, and I was alone. Sighing, I made my way to the common room, walking carefully in the patent-leather high heels I'd rather idiotically elected to wear. The dress, though—it was so pretty. It had seemed a shame to waste it. I hadn't thought of Riddle at all when I'd slid on my stockings and picked out my shoes. Not even once.

I meandered through the castle slowly, the methodical clacking of my heels against the flagstone floors easing me into a thoughtful daze. I wondered what Abraxas wanted to give me. Surely not another ill-conceived betrothal gift? I knew I hadn't done a particularly thorough job of impressing upon him the futility of a romantic relationship between the two of us. I'd gotten distracted, talking about Ron and Harry. My stomach clenched.

_Ron and Harry_.

I'd very pointedly not allowed myself to think about them since.

My pace slowed as I heaved open the castle doors and crept outside; the sun had only recently gone down, the inky purple remnants of twilight providing an ominous backdrop for the sloping, empty grounds. I scanned the area in front of the lake, searching for Abraxas' familiar, hulking shape—was he not there yet?

But then I froze.

A sound—

The whisper of a cloak—

I was being followed. By someone I couldn't see. An Invisibility Cloak? Did it matter? I took a deep, penetrating breath and turned towards the greenhouses. There was a courtyard there. Another entrance the castle. If I could just—

The first blow was unexpected.

I fell forward, tripping over my heels and landing in an agonizing heap on the grass. Hands—unfamiliar hands, callused and rough, oh, God, I needed to get away, far away, away away away—tore at my dress, ripping it down the middle, and the raspy scratching sound of the hem separating proved overloud and obnoxious in the sudden, arresting quiet. I tried to make myself scream—anything, anything to get away, I needed to fucking get away—but an arm was pressed into my throat, cutting off my oxygen, and I kicked out, the feel of my stockings catching, tearing, slipping against my legs almost too much to bear—get away, get away, fucking get away—and there was a frantic growl, a pained grunt, as my knee collided with something warm and hard, and I clawed at the ground—_escape escape escape_, now, do it, get away—_fucking now_—and adrenaline coursed smooth and quick through my veins, propelling me up, up, urging me to run, run now, get away, _fucking get away, Hermione_—

The second blow wasn't unexpected at all.

OOO

I woke up dizzy.

I immediately felt for my wand. It wasn't there. I recognized that I was lying on soft, spring surface—grass? I was still outside. I blinked. I glanced around warily. I was somewhere on the castle grounds. There was a man standing to my left.

Panic seized me.

"Who are you?" I demanded, sitting up. "What do you want?"

The stranger chuckled, twirling my wand casually between long, pale fingers. He was tall, middle-aged, and incredibly well-built; he might have been relatively unremarkable, even handsome, if it wasn't for a vicious, jagged-looking scar that ran diagonally across his face. It started at his forehead, directly above his left eye, and swept downwards, over his slightly crooked nose, before ending neatly at the base of his jaw. His eyes were a mysterious light brown, practically amber, and his hair was close-cropped and bright blond. He was wearing a thick navy sweater and dark grey trousers, and had a black cloak draped across his shoulders. A chunky silver ring adorned his right hand, with a large, oblong emerald nestled firmly in its center.

But he wasn't familiar. I didn't know him. I was certain of that.

I continued to study him, willing my brain to fucking _work_—I needed to escape. I needed to find a way out of this. He had my wand, and I had no way of physically overpowering him. He was too big, and I was too small.

But perhaps—

A distraction—

The castle wasn't so terribly far away, after all. Surely someone would hear me if I screamed. Surely someone would be close enough. Surely this wasn't how it was all going to end. Not like this. Not with me lying in the grass, my dress torn and muddy, wandless, helpless, fucking _alone_; not with a stranger standing over me, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight as he grinned—his cheerfulness was disturbing, much like the state of my stockings, and I wondered, in a vague way, why I wasn't terrified.

"My name's not important, kitten," the stranger drawled, his condescension almost palpable in the crisp night air. "Yours, however, _is_."

My eyes widened.

"You don't—you don't even know who I _am_?"

He smiled.

"I know who you're _supposed _to be, but I can't imagine—I mean, look at you. Christ. You're, what, fourteen?"

I dug my fingers into the grass.

"Just turned seventeen, actually," I replied haughtily.

He sighed.

"Hermione Granger, then?" he asked, quirking his lips. They were dry and chapped.

I went still.

"How do you know that name?"

He snorted.

"You're pretending to be Albus Dumbledore's niece," he said flatly. "There isn't a wizard alive in Europe who doesn't know that name. Fuck-all you can do about it, too. Sorry, kitten—you're famous."

"What makes you think that I'm her?"

He laughed. The sound wasn't friendly.

"Who else would you be?"

I didn't answer.

"Why didn't you just stun me? Why go through—all of this?" I asked, motioning at my soiled clothing.

He shrugged.

"I don't do magic, kitten. Besides, I'm not about to give away all my secrets," he replied easily, winking.

"Will you stop calling me that?" I snapped.

He arched a disdainful brow.

"You're not exactly in a position to be making demands, are you?"

I flushed.

"What do you want with me?" I finally asked, picking nervously at the torn hem of my dress. It had been so pretty earlier. It was ruined now. "You haven't said."

He shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

"See, that's where we run into problems," he mused grimly. "Because I know what I'm _supposed _to be doing with you, kitten. But—and don't take this the wrong way—you just look so bloody _young_. I don't know if I can. If I have it in me. Does that make sense to you? No? It shouldn't. You're an innocent, aren't you? Untouched, I'd bet. You're so fucking young. Christ. They didn't mention that. Don't rightly know if I'd have taken this one if I'd known how fucking young you look. What do we do now, kitten? Can you tell me that?"

I stared at him, abruptly succumbing to the first dismal, dingy stirrings of fear. I should scream. He was very clearly insane, and I should fucking scream. Except my throat was tight—too tight—and my lungs weren't functioning properly. If I opened my mouth, I wasn't certain it would work. But I needed to scream. Someone would hear. The castle was so close. Someone would come. They had to. They would. This wasn't going to happen. He wasn't going to touch me. Someone would be here. Someone would fucking come.

"I don't—I don't understand," I stammered, hoping that I could keep him talking. He couldn't hurt me if he was talking.

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" he asked sadly. "It's tough, kitten. I won't lie to you. I'm good at my job, you know. Of course you know—I got you out here, didn't I? I did. I'm good at what I do. But kidnapping schoolgirls shouldn't be all that difficult. They shouldn't have needed me for this. You're so young. So bloody young. How can they expect me to do this? I'm good at my job, but I'm not a fucking monster."

"Are you supposed to—to take me somewhere?" I asked quickly.

He glanced at me impatiently.

"_Obviously_," he sneered. "You aren't stupid, are you? Don't imagine they'd be half so interested in you if you were."

"Who is '_they_'?"

He pursed his lips and continued to twirl my wand. I just needed to him to keep talking. Someone would notice that I was gone. Someone would come for me. The castle wasn't so far away. Someone would come. He just had to keep talking.

"Do you really not know?"

I shook my head, the motion oddly jerky.

"Well," he said. "You've made some awful powerful enemies, kitten. But you had to have known you might—lying about being related to Dumbledore, and all that. Surprised the old man even let you. He—of _all_ people—should have known what a death wish it would be."

I scowled defensively.

"He was trying to _protect_ me," I argued. "He said—"

He cut me off with a sharp bark of laughter.

"Oh, I'm sure he said a lot of things, kitten," he said, smirking. "And while I'd never call Albus Dumbledore a _liar_, I'd caution you to think long and hard about anything he deigns to tell you. Right wily bastard, he is. But you don't have much experience with those, do you? No, of course you don't. You're so fucking young, kitten. So fucking _young_."

I drew my knees up to my chest, shuddering, and frowned. He'd torn the sleeve on my dress, leaving a gaping hole in the soft green fabric—my forearm was chilled, exposed, the faint, waxy outline of a scar clearly visible. I covered it with my hand. _Mudblood_. Bellatrix Lestrange had made sure that I was marked, labeled, her shiny silver knife piercing my skin over and over, carving that word, that hateful fucking word—it had been painful, humiliating, the physical agony surpassed only by the haunting reality of what that word—that hateful fucking word—really meant.

I wasn't wanted.

I didn't belong.

I was branded, forever, and that word—that hateful fucking word—was never going to go away.

"You think I'm stupid for trusting Professor Dumbledore?" I managed to ask, my fingernails pressed into my arm. He couldn't see it. I couldn't let him. He had to keep talking. Someone would come. Someone had to come.

"_Naïve_ might be more accurate, kitten," he responded slowly. He stared down at me, unblinking. "Seventeen, you said?"

My teeth clacked together as I fought the urge to whimper. He looked thoughtful. Pensive. Like he was making a decision.

"Ye—yeah," I stuttered, stealing a frantic glimpse of the castle—except it was farther away than I thought it was, much farther, and I wasn't sure anymore if someone was coming. If someone would get to me in time. If someone would even hear me scream.

"So bloody young," he mumbled, almost to himself. "Seventeen, though. Not so young. Not really."

I wrapped my arms around my knees, clutching the ragged remnants of my stockings.

"What are you—are you going to do with me?"

He didn't answer. Breathing became difficult.

"Too young," he muttered, kicking at the ground. A small pebble ricocheted off his boot. "No. Not too young. Seventeen. Not too young. Not at all."

He turned towards me, his expression hard, his gaze lingering on my breasts, my throat, my bare legs—I crawled backwards, suddenly—_stupidly_—aware of the way my dress had been ripped, practically down the middle, shoved up, out of the way, my knickers peeking out from beneath the silky green hem—it had been so pretty just an hour ago, hadn't it—but this stranger, this mysterious man who couldn't seem to decide if he had a conscience or not, had destroyed it.

Wrecked it.

And now he was approaching me, his gait heavy, and I wasn't going to get away.

"Please," I whispered hysterically. "I'm—I'm a virgin, please, I've never—"

He knelt on the grass, his face impassive.

"It's alright, kitten," he crooned. "I'm not here to do that. I'd never do that. I'm all for scratch marks, but only the good kind, yeah?"

Before I could reply, he had reached forward, wrapping his arms around my legs, hoisting me up—and then there was a shout, distant, no, not distant, close, nearby, closer than the castle—and a brief, tumultuous scuffle, a muffled curse, a blinding burst of red light, footsteps, a voice, a familiar voice, my name, yelling my name—and I was hurtling back towards the ground, landing uncomfortably on my shoulder, and the stranger had toppled over, unconscious.

I shut my eyes.

Someone had come.

Someone had rescued me.

Someone had fucking come.

"Hermione? Granger? _Hermione_! Can you hear me? Are you okay? Fuck—Riddle's going to fucking kill me if you aren't, come on, wake up—Hermione?"

I opened my eyes, startled by the figure hovering above me.

"_Edmond_?" I bleated, coughing as I sat up.

Edmond Lestrange was staring down at me, his pale, pointed face scrunched up in trepidation.

"Fucking hell," he gasped, helping me to my feet. His touch was surprisingly gentle. "When I saw him trying to pick you up I thought I might have been too late."

I stumbled into his arms, hugging him tightly, refusing to think about who he was and what I was doing.

"Thank you," I whispered into his neck. "Thank you so much."

He froze, patting my back clumsily.

"It's—it's alright, Hermione," he replied nervously. "You're fine. You're going to be fine. We need to get back to school, though. I have to find a teacher. And Riddle—Tom, I mean—he's probably waiting for me. And you."

I held his hand as he led me towards the castle. I didn't think about why. I was numb from something, and I couldn't quite grasp what it was—relief seemed too obvious, but what else could it have been?

"How—how did you know where I was?" I asked quietly.

He gulped, the veins in his neck pushing up against thin, sensitive skin.

"Tom was—uh—talking to Malfoy before Slughorn's party," he replied. "Don't know about what. But then he—Tom, I mean—went to go get you from your room, because I guess Malfoy wasn't feeling well—and he found that note, the one telling you to meet Malfoy down here, and since he knew that Malfoy hadn't sent it—he was, um, incapacitated—stomach thing, really sudden, you know how it is—he told me to go check out here while he made sure that Malfoy was still—ah—resting. I imagine that if he'd known what was happening to you he would have come himself, because—uh—well, you know—and as it is he's going to be pretty fucking furious that he wasn't the one to take that fucker down—er—sorry—"

I stopped. My jaw hung open.

"_Tom Riddle_ sent you to rescue me?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets, his features contorted with confusion.

"Well—yeah, you're his girlfriend, aren't you? That's why he was so angry with Malfoy for using that bullshit 'friends'line on you to get you to come to Slughorn's party with him. Right?"

I cocked my head to the side, momentarily stunned into inaction.

"What—no—oh, my God, _no_—I am most assuredly _not _Tom Riddle's girlfriend!"

He furrowed his brow and urged me to continue walking.

"I don't mean to be indelicate, Granger, but—um—does Tom know that? He was—ah—_irrationally_ upset when he realized you'd gone missing, you know."

I floundered for an acceptable response as he held open the castle doors.

"Well—no—I mean, we certainly aren't—"

A new voice echoed in the entrance hall, effectively putting an end to my awkward stammering.

"_There_ you are! God, Lestrange, how long does it take to—"

Tom Riddle was striding purposefully towards us, dressed in a rather fetching black suit, his eyes raking over my body, top to bottom. But his expression shifted treacherously when he registered my shredded dress and torn stockings—and I watched, entranced, as he balled his hands into angry fists, his rage somehow tangible in the large, airy hall; it was as if it was taking up space, filling a void, a living, breathing, sentient _thing_ that was reactive and capable and liable to launch itself out onto the grounds and find whoever it was who had dared to harm me. Lestrange immediately dropped my hand.

"Who did this to her?" Riddle demanded, his tone dangerous.

Lestrange flinched.

"I—I don't know who he is," I replied shakily. "He didn't say."

"Lestrange," he snarled, glancing at the other boy.

"Yeah?"

"Is whoever did this to her still breathing?"

A tense beat of silence followed his question.

"Yeah, Tom, he is—I just stunned him, thought I'd grab a teacher when we got back here—"

"Fix it," Riddle snapped.

I shivered. His gaze flew towards my face. Without another word, he took off his jacket and slipped it over my shoulders. It was several sizes too large for me, but he smoothed the sleeves down over my arms to keep it close to my body. It was a bizarrely kindgesture. I hastily banished the thought.

"Take care of it, Lestrange," he ordered.

Lestrange didn't say anything else as he turned back towards the doors.

"Wait!" I cried, clutching the ends of Riddle's jacket and spinning around. "You can't just—just _do_ that!"

Lestrange looked up at Riddle, his face carefully blank.

"Do what, sweetheart?" Riddle asked.

"You can't _hurt_ him," I clarified, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Whoever he is. He _attacked_ me and I don't even know why. Surely we should just get Uncle Albus and—"

"No."

I reared back, nonplussed.

"What do you mean, _no_?"

"I mean, _no_. We will not be going to your uncle about this. I know exactly why you were attacked. Your would-be rapist out there—the one you seem curiously eager to protect—doesn't know anything beyond his own name. And even that might be a stretch for him. He's hired help. Do you understand what that means, sweetheart?"

"No," I hissed. "No, I don't know what that means. Because I have no idea what's going on and you don't seem to want to explain anything to me!"

Lestrange shuffled uneasily behind us.

"Tomorrow," Riddle replied seriously. "Tomorrow, I'll tell you what you want to know. Tonight—I still have to talk to someone. I'll know everything by tomorrow."

I looked away.

"Fine. Tomorrow, then."

"I have some questions of my own for you, anyway."

I bit my lip.

"Right."

He turned back towards Lestrange.

"Go," he instructed. "_Now_."

I didn't bother trying to stop him.

But as soon as the doors closed again, Riddle was next to me, touching me, his hands gripping my jaw as he tilted my face back into the candlelight.

"Did he hurt you?" he demanded.

I swallowed.

"What do you mean?"

He looked at me searchingly.

"Did he _hurt_ you, Hermione?"

I slowly shook my head.

"No," I whispered. "He didn't."

Something that might have been relief flickered across his features.

"But your dress—" he started to say.

"Is ruined, yes," I interrupted smoothly.

He half-smiled and glanced down at me, taking in the monstrous tear down the center of the garment.

"We should get you cleaned up, I think," he suggested, clearing his throat.

"We should," I agreed.

Neither of us moved.

"I didn't—I should thank you," I said softly. "For realizing what was happening and sending someone to look for me."

His hands tightened around my jaw.

"It was nothing," he said dismissively.

"No," I insisted. "No, it wasn't _nothing_. You—you saved me. That isn't nothing. That can never be _nothing_."

And then there was a moment, just a second, of profoundly unsettling _quiet_, a stillness that felt concrete, solid, the air between us materializing into an impenetrable, unbreakable sort of wall—and the sound of our breathing scraped against my ears, oddly harsh, almost intrusive, until we were between heartbeats, the absence of that dull thumping pounding rhythm nothing more than a reprieve, an escape, because as soon as it was back, as soon as I was reminded of the fact that we were both still real—I would remember to step back.

I would remember to move away.

I would remember that I was wearing his jacket, and that it smelled like home—and I would remember all the reasons that it shouldn't.

It absolutely fucking _shouldn't_.

"What are you doing to me?" he whispered, the sound guttural, desperate, and so very, very different from his usual silky, prepossessing drawl.

"I don't know," I replied honestly, staring up at him, into him, utterly unable to look away.

And then he was lowering his head, just the slightest bit, his eyes locked on mine—dark eyes, practically unnatural, but that didn't matter, it didn't matter, it would never fucking matter—and I realized I could run away, stop him, say something, anything, and make this moment and whatever it meant, whatever it was going to mean, go away and never exist and disappear altogether.

"I can't," he said hoarsely, and I wasn't sure, at first, what he meant—except his lips, his lips were getting closer, and their descent felt inexplicable, inescapable, _inevitable_, and I knew, suddenly, what he'd left unspoken, the word he hadn't let himself say out loud—

_I can't stop._

_I can't stop._

_I can't fucking stop._

"Don't, then," I managed, thinking, feverishly, that I should be fighting harder, wrenching myself out of his grasp and tripping over my feet and hiding—from him, from this, from the slow-burning coil of fire that had settled voraciously in the pit of my stomach.

But then—

His lips ghosted over mine, just the faintest, briefest, most maddening brush of skin on skin—and his breath was sharp and hot, and his hands were trembling as they fluttered across my back, as if he was afraid, as if he wasn't sure, as if he didn't know what to do—and then I made a sound, a helpless, desperate, choking sort of plea, because I needed him closer, because I couldn't seem to stop myself—and he was suddenly _there_, right fucking there, his hips pressed possessively, protectively, against mine—right there, finally there, right fucking there—and his body felt long and lean and hard, his arms warm and inviting even through the thin cotton of his shirt—but that wasn't it, it was more than that, it was the way the planes of his chest molded against me, into me, the way we fit together, like I'd only been half of a whole, incomplete, inconsequential, until I'd met him, touched him—right there, right fucking there—

With a low, frantic growl, his hands moved up from my shoulders to grip the back of my head, his fingers digging with delicious ferocity into my hair, pinning me down, keeping me in place, and he slanted his mouth, prying my lips open with his tongue, and he tasted like cinnamon, he tasted like—he tasted like he wasn't supposed to. He tasted like something good, something better than good, something that I'd never want to let go of, not even once, not now that I'd found it, found _him_. And as my fingers curled into the front of his shirt, grasping, needing, craving, my brain came to a grinding, gratuitous halt and all I could think was—

_This is sublime_.

OOO


	9. VIII

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

It took less than a minute for the tenor of our kiss—_oh_, that fucking kiss—to completely change. He pushed his tongue between my lips, scraped it against my teeth, sent it roving over the roof of my mouth—and then he moaned, almost disbelievingly, as if he couldn't quite understand how it was that this was happening, as if it wasn't real, couldn't be real—

He slammed me back against the wall.

And then his hands traveled down until he was kneading my backside, yanking me up closer, _closer_, yes, rolling his hips, thrusting his erection between my thighs—hot and hard and _thick_, impossibly so, yes, even through his trousers, even through my dress—God, _yes_, again, again, yes—

And still—

_Still _he kept kissing me.

Scalding molten heat pooled in my knickers, soaking them, inspiring an unfamiliar desperate clenching _ache_—I needed something, needed him, needed him to press up, yes, yes, right there, that spot, _yes_—he just felt so fucking _good_—but I wanted more, _yes_, I wanted him inside of me, fast and rough, yes, more, yes, _please please please don't stop_, don't ever fucking stop—

His mouth trailed down my jaw, over my neck, his teeth latching onto my throat, biting, nipping, tugging—it stung, but as his tongue darted out to lap at the marks he was making, soothing the tortured skin, I couldn't help but gasp. Because every inch of my body felt inflamed, unstable, like I had wandered head-first into a trembling, rumbling volcano on the cusp of a deadly, earth-shattering eruption, and I was suddenly certain—beyond certain, far past the tedium of merely _knowing_ something to be true—that _I_ would explode if he didn't alleviate the telltale pressure building up rather tremendously in my abdomen—yes, yes, keeping _going_, like that, yes, God, so fucking good, yes, please, _please_—

And then it felt as if my blood had been replaced with liquid fire, and my veins were engulfed, inadequate, paper-thin and disintegrating quickly—it should have been unpleasant, and maybe it was, maybe—yes, too good, so good, yes, _please_—

He shifted his body, drawing his knee up gradually, tentatively, and rested it for a second between my thighs. He hesitated, his lips hovering above my collarbone. And then—gently—slowly—he moved his knee again.

He moved it up.

He pressed it forward, the fabric of his trousers and the hard muscle of his leg brushing lightly against my cotton-covered clit, and my knickers were damp enough to cling stubbornly, erotically, to my skin—

But then he rubbed.

Once—_yes, yes, just there, God, please, yes, there there there_—

Twice—_close, so close, there, yes, there, please, close, so fucking close, please, there, don't stop, never stop, yes yes__** yes**_—

I came.

I came, and I might have screamed. I might have said things I didn't mean, things that didn't make any sense—I might have done a hundred things, a thousand things, but none of them mattered, no, not in the slightest, not when my entire world was centered rather fantastically—fanatically—on _him_ and me and the helpless hapless spurts of adrenaline that were flaring out and up and through my spine, not when my muscles were drowning, abruptly, in a tidal wave of bright tingling crumbling fucking _something_—_yes yes yes_—it wasn't right, it wasn't right that this felt so good, it wasn't right that it was with him, but my heart was beating fast, too fast, and my brain was spinning, floundering, and even if I'd forgotten how to, even if I couldn't manage it, he was still breathing against my neck, murmuring soft, barely there platitudes, words, endearments—_yes, sweetheart, yes, come for me, just like that, taste so fucking good, I knew you would, yes, __**yes**__, come for me, yes, sweetheart, yes, so good, like that, just like that_—and then his hands were creeping around, gripping my hips, sliding under the torn hem of my dress, headed straight for my knickers—

"_Stop_," I said hoarsely. "Please, stop."

He did.

And I swallowed.

And he pulled back, his hands falling away.

And I held my breath—

And then we stared at each other, wide-eyed, for several long, tense minutes. I felt my gaze drift down to the obvious, rather impressive, bulge in his trousers.

_Oh, God._

_ Oh, my God._

_Oh, my __**fucking**__ God._

"That was—" he started to say, running a hand through his hair. It was uncharacteristically disheveled. Had I done that?

"Yeah," I whispered. I realized, vaguely, that acknowledging what had just occurred between us was unwise. I couldn't hear it. I didn't want to hear it. I couldn't hear it. I _couldn't._ That would make it real. That would make it an _event_. Something that had actually happened. Something that I couldn't pretend was some kind of eerily realistic daydream. No—not a daydream. A nightmare. It was a nightmare. I was going to wake up. This wasn't real. This hadn't happened. It fucking _hadn't_.

He scratched the back of his neck, frowning.

"Is kissing always so…volatile?"

I jerked my head up.

"What? You mean you've never—" I asked, stunned.

He immediately flushed.

"Why would I have ever wanted to exchange saliva with someone I more than likely can't stand?" he demanded defensively. "The whole concept is…_disgusting_."

I gaped at him, nonplussed.

"You're not a romantic, are you?"

He sneered.

"Romance is for imbeciles."

I bit back a semi-hysterical giggle. This conversation wasn't happening. It simply wasn't. It was all in my head. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

"And kissing?" I asked. Just because I could.

His eyes darkened.

"Is unhygienic."

I scoffed.

"Right, because _that _certainly explains the past twenty minutes," I remarked sarcastically.

"I got—carried away," he retorted. "Overwhelmed. Your knickers are on display, in case you didn't know. Bit distracting, that."

A blush slithered its way across my cheekbones.

"Well, then. We can just agree that this is never going to happen again and go our separate ways, can't we?"

"I didn't say that's what I wanted," he drawled. "Don't put words in my mouth, Granger."

I bristled.

"No, you'd much rather my tongue was there, wouldn't you?" I shot back.

His face went blank.

"Was that meant to be clever?"

I didn't reply.

He cleared this throat.

I fought the impulse to flee—I was brave, wasn't I? Everyone said so. I could do this. I could face him. I didn't have to run. I didn't _need _to run. I could do this.

"I'll find you tomorrow," he blurted out, his voice echoing in the dauntingly high ceilings of the entrance hall.

I choked.

"_What_?"

He smirked. I paled.

"Tomorrow," he repeated. "We're supposed to talk. About the mysterious hardened criminal that attacked you tonight. Remember? He ruined your dress. Surely you haven't forgotten about him."

I nearly had. God.

"Oh," I said dimly. "Of course. Tomorrow."

He continued to watch me impassively while I struggled to organize my thoughts. I wondered why I was still standing there. I wondered why he hadn't left. I wondered why Edmond Lestrange had been the one to rescue me, and I wondered about the faint, delicious tremors that were still restlessly attacking my nervous system. I wondered what I was doing and what he was thinking and why, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to escape him, ever. Mostly, though, I wondered why I couldn't stop fucking _wondering_.

"I should walk you to the common room," he suggested curtly, straightening his tie. It was loose and crooked. Had I done that, too? "You need to get cleaned up."

"I think—I think I can get there on my own," I said, stumbling over my response. I wasn't speaking clearly. I wasn't thinking clearly. My skull felt compounded, fractured, the pieces flimsy, insubstantial, rather like cardboard, and there was a faint buzzing sound lurking around my ears. I didn't know why. I wasn't thinking clearly. Except—

I did know why.

Of course I fucking knew why.

It was sinking in, the enormity of what had just happened, the intensity of what it meant—and I needed to be alone. I needed space. I needed to process the fact that Tom fucking Riddle had just given me an orgasm in the middle of the Hogwarts entrance hall. I needed to get away from him. I needed his frustrating, enigmatic smirk to disappear. I needed to be alone. I needed to try and figure out what had happened that night. I needed to understand. I needed to know. I didn't want to wait for tomorrow. I didn't want to have to trust what he said.

But that didn't matter. Not right now. Not when my knickers were still sticky and he was still standing so close.

_Bloody fucking hell_.

What had I done?

"You can't possibly think I'm letting you walk all the way to the dungeons on your own," he argued, clenching his jaw. "Not after what happened to you tonight."

"Then I'll just wait for Edmond!" I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to ignore the way my hands were shaking. Why were they shaking? "He can walk me back. _You_ don't need to."

Riddle narrowed his eyes and took a step backwards.

"You hate Lestrange," he pointed out, his voice low. "You can barely stand to look at him during meals."

The tenuous hold I had on my temper was severed.

"Then that should tell you something, shouldn't it?" I hissed. "That I'd rather have _him_ walk me back than you?"

His expression flickered—microscopically—before shutting down altogether.

"Tell me, then, Granger, are you going to thank him for saving you the same way you thanked me?"

His implication was clear. My stomach lurched. It was almost—but not quite, not quite, that was all I could think to make it better, _not fucking quite_—painful.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I replied coolly, lifting my chin.

He snorted.

"I was calling you a whore," he clarified, shrugging.

I gritted my teeth.

"How funny. The boy who's killed people but never been kissed is casting aspersions on _my _character."

He eyed me with obvious disdain.

"How funny. The girl too stupid to recognize a trap when she sees one thinks it's _appropriate_ to insult the boy who orchestrated the _entirety_ of her rescue from aforementioned trap."

I stiffened.

"Last I checked it was _Edmond_ who found me."

He straightened his shoulders.

"And last _I _checked _Edmond_ doesn't breathe, piss, or wankwithout my express permission."

My lips parted of their own accord.

"Is that something you're particularly proud of? Being a—a—_tyrant_?"

He exhaled loudly.

"_Tyrant_ is a rather tame word for what you _really_ think I am, isn't it?"

I clamped my mouth shut.

But he didn't say anything else, and as the silence stretched on—grew thicker and bleaker and more obvious—I realized that he didn't have to.

He'd won.

He'd won, even if he didn't understand what game we were playing. Even if he didn't know the rules. Even if I succeeded in getting him away from me—he'd already fucking won. His unnervingly exhaustive fixation with me had saved my life. _He'd _saved my life, even if he'd used Edmond Lestrange to do it, and—

He'd won.

What was the point in antagonizing him? Lashing out? He could protect me. He _would _protect me. He'd made that clear. And it was apparent—in a way that it hadn't been before tonight—that I needed protecting. Because someone knew. Someone knew that I wasn't who I said I was. Someone knew that I had a valuable, extraordinary secret—and that meant that I was in danger.

The irony was astonishing.

Tom Riddle—fucking _Voldemort_—wanted to keep me safe.

"Look. I just—this shouldn't have happened," I finally said, looking away, around—anywhere but at him. I couldn't look at him. Not now. Especially not now. "I don't do things like this. I can't—I don't—it was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened."

"But it did."

I wrapped my arms around my waist and gazed resolutely at the floor.

"It shouldn't have," I repeated.

"But it _did_," he said again, more insistently.

"And I'd like to forget that fact, thanks ever so," I spat sharply, looking up. I was startled by the tense, almost angry set of his jaw.

"Don't be—" he started to snarl before being interrupted.

The double doors leading outside had slammed open, admitting a tired, mud-spattered Edmond Lestrange. His wand was hanging forlornly from his right hand, and he looked defeated and maybe a tiny bit sad. He came to a halt as he registered our presence.

"You're still here?" Lestrange asked, his surprise evident.

"Just talking," I replied quickly.

A vein throbbed mercilessly at the base of Riddle's neck.

"Alright, Edmond?" he said, his tone suspiciously bland.

Lestrange hunched his shoulders and nodded slowly.

"Alright, Tom."

Riddle stepped away. The air surrounding me suddenly felt cold.

"Good. Walk her back, will you? I have something I need to do."

And then, with one last lingering glance at my bare legs, he had swept outside, his stride long and languorous and graceful and—_buggering fucking hell_. Not again. Never again.

"So—ah—should we go, then?" Lestrange asked awkwardly, shuffling his feet.

I grimaced.

"Sure," I responded, turning on my heel and heading for the stairs. His footsteps sounded loud and heavy as he walked next to me.

"Are you—um—okay?"

"I'm fine."

He stared at me disbelievingly.

"You and Tom, then?" he tried.

I scoffed.

"_No_," I said vehemently.

He flinched.

"Alright, then."

I swallowed.

"So—what happened? Outside, I mean. Who was that man? Did you find out?"

He leveled a shrewd glance in my direction.

"Thought Tom was going to explain things to you tomorrow."

I sniffed impatiently.

"Did you…hurt him?" I pressed.

He snorted softly.

"What do you think?"

I chewed the inside of my mouth.

"I think you did what Riddle told you to do."

"And what is it you think he told me to do?" He sounded amused.

"He said—well, he wanted you to—to—" I stammered.

He cut me off.

"That man—the one who attacked you—he didn't know anything, Hermione," he said quietly. "He was a squib. Couldn't even do magic."

"Who was he, though?" I persisted.

"Didn't catch his name," Lestrange replied uncomfortably. "But I left him for Tom, so—I imagine he'll be able to…find it out."

"You mean you didn't—"

He pursed his lips.

"I did what Tom told me to, Hermione."

"And do you always do whatever he tells you to?"

He scrunched his nose up.

"Usually. Tom can be…persuasive. I'm sure you'll understand eventually."

I clenched my hands into fists. My palms were sweaty.

"I'm quite sure that I won't," I said defiantly.

He smirked.

"What do you know about Gellert Grindewald, Hermione? Quite a bit, I'd wager, considering you lived on the Continent for so long, but—humor me."

Baffled by the abrupt change of subject, I considered my response carefully.

"His agenda is rather…anti-muggle," I answered haltingly. "He thinks that it's our responsibility as magical beings to—well, to _control_ muggles—sort of lord over them, if you will. For the _greater good_. That's his motto, isn't it?"

He cocked his head to the side.

"And do you agree with him?"

I ran my tongue over the edge of my teeth.

"What does he have to do with Riddle?" I asked, deftly ignoring his question.

He arched a brow.

"Have you ever heard of the Elder Wand?"

My heart jerked unpleasantly.

"Of course."

"There's a rumor that Grindewald has it," he said softly. "That that's how he's accomplishing so much in Europe. So long as he has that wand, he's unbeatable, you understand."

I licked my lips. This was a bit too close to home—_my _Voldemort had been obsessed with that wand. He'd gone to unspeakable lengths to acquire it. Is this when all of that had started? Had he really spent fifty fucking years chasing absolute power?

"What's your point?" I asked, tugging the ends of Riddle's jacket closer. The air had turned frigid as we approached the dungeons.

"You've noticed, I'm sure, that Tom is…ambitious?"

"He's a Slytherin," I pointed out. "Of course he's ambitious."

He smiled grimly.

"That isn't what I meant, but I think you know that."

My nostrils flared.

"Yeah. I do."

He quirked his lips.

"We—the boys and I—have been with him for a long time, Hermione," he said. I noted that he didn't call Riddle a friend. "He's…brilliant, as I'm sure you've figured out, but more than that—he's—_different_. He gets what he wants. Always. He's a good person to have on your side, if you get what I'm saying."

I felt like he was handing me small, seemingly unrelated pieces of very different puzzles—was there a pattern that I wasn't seeing? A connection I was supposed to being making?

"What, exactly, are you trying to say?"

He sighed impatiently.

"Be careful around him. That's all. Just—watch yourself."

We'd arrived at the common room. I looked up at him, confused by this unexpected kindness.

"I will," I replied. "Thank you for walking me back."

He forced another smile.

"It wasn't a problem."

He watched me walk towards the girls' dormitories, his expression troubled.

"Have a good night, Edmond," I called out.

But before I could disappear down the hallway, he had rushed towards me and grabbed my elbow.

"Hermione—wait."

I turned to face him.

"What is it?"

He cast a covert glance around the common room. It was empty. My pulse sped up.

"If you're going to reject Tom, you need to be smart about it," he mumbled, his eyes solemn. "I don't know what's happened—and, please, don't fucking tell me, either—but—you _need_ to be careful around him."

"Why are you telling me any of this?"

His mouth twisted.

"Because we've all got plans—plans that involve Tom, I mean—and I've a bad feeling that whatever he's getting himself involved in with you…that bloke that attacked you tonight, he was bloody dangerous, wasn't he? Or at least whoever hired him is."

My forehead creased in a frown.

"You're saying—what—that you've got too much invested in him to let him get _distracted_?"

Lestrange chuckled darkly.

"Hardly."

"Then I don't understand."

He shook his head and moved away.

"Just be careful, Hermione. That's all I'm saying."

I furrowed my brow.

"Alright, then."

He winced suddenly.

"Oh—and Malfoy's in the hospital wing, if you wanted to visit him tomorrow," he said. "I wouldn't go tonight, though, because Tom might—well. I'd just wait until morning. I'm sure he—Malfoy, I mean—would really like to see you."

And then he disappeared down the boys' hallway. Dazed, I wandered towards my room. Lestrange had left me with more questions than answers—it had been difficult to tell if he was warning me away from Riddle or trying to convince me to join him. Join _them_.

I shivered.

I stepped into my dormitory, letting the door click shut behind me. I stood still for a moment, attempting to process everything that happened in the past few hours. I'd been tricked, attacked, rescued, and nearly _ravished_—I tried desperately to identify what I was feeling, but it was fucking _hard_, wasn't it?

It occurred to me that I was still wearing Riddle's jacket.

Bile rose in my throat.

I rushed into the bathroom, hurtling towards the sink, belatedly remembering that there was a mirror right above it and that the last thing I wanted to catch a glimpse of just then was myself.

Too late.

Always too fucking late.

I stared, almost unseeing, at my reflection—but wouldn't it be _better_ if I couldn't fucking see myself? Couldn't see my red, swollen lips, the faint purple beginnings of a bruise at the base of my neck; my eyes were dark and luminous, flashing defiantly, hungrily; and my hair was falling out of the sleek chignon I'd had it in earlier, a messy mass of tangled curls tumbling down my back. My breathing was still ragged and harsh, my chest heaving, my breasts pushing up against the flimsy constraints of my dress.

God.

It would be better if I couldn't see any of it.

But—

When Riddle had held me, I'd forgotten all about the nightmare of an evening I'd had—I'd forgotten about where I was and who he was and why it was wrong, so fucking wrong, for him to make me feel the way I did, desperate and warm and like an army of fireworks had burrowed into my bloodstream and begged to be set off. Because how could I be attracted to him? He was evil, and cruel, and more than likely insane, and—and—

He'd made me come without even _touching _me.

Tears burned in the back of my eyes.

Ten minutes alone with Tom fucking Riddle and I'd been weak enough to betray Harry. Betray Ron. Betray _everyone_. He'd moved his knee between my legs and rubbed, just for a second, and I'd been done for. He hadn't even taken off my knickers. What did that _mean_?

I knew what it meant.

It meant that I was a traitor.

A fucking _traitor_.

I snatched a washcloth off of the nearest shelf and returned to the sink, furiously twisting the tap and waiting for the hot water to emerge. I was angry. Furious, really. And my anger was violent, directed solely at the girl I had transformed into practically overnight—because I was supposed to be loyal. I was supposed have standards. Principles. I was brilliant and logical and _good_. I protected my friends. I crusaded for house-elf rights. I swore in my head, but never out loud. I had—what was it?—strong moral fiber. Yes. That. I had that.

A strangled sob clawed its way out of my throat. I clapped a hand over my mouth, dropping the washcloth in the slowly filling sink. It floated to the surface of the water.

What was I doing? Who had I become? Every time I tried to hold onto any part of myself that connected me to the future—I failed. Miserably. It was as if I wasn't capable of even _pretending _to be that version of Hermione any longer. She was gone. Trapped. Was it time to accept that? If Dumbledore somehow managed to find a way to send me home—would I actually be able to go back to normal? Would anything be the same?

I picked up the sodden washcloth and wrung it out. It surface was rough and scratchy against my skin.

I was just so fucking tired of feeling _vulnerable_. And kissing Riddle—that wasn't really what was wrong, was it?

I ran my fingertips over the bright white enamel of the sink.

He could have done anything to me. He had me pressed up against the wall, quite literally rutting against him, and he could have done anything. I wouldn't have said no. I wouldn't have been able to. He'd made sure of it.

I leaned forward.

He could have done anything. He could have hurt me. He could have done _anything._

I exhaled sharply, watching with waning disinterest as my breath swathed through the thin film of condensation that had settled over the mirror.

But when I'd asked him to stop, he had. He'd _stopped_.

And that was what was wrong. Really wrong. I was rational. I was intelligent. I knew what being a traitor meant, and I knew that I wasn't one. Not really.

I closed my eyes, suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

That wasn't what was wrong. Not at all.

A steady stream of water began to drip onto my feet. The sink was overflowing.

Tom Riddle—_Voldemort_—was what was wrong.

I curled my toes into the cold linoleum floor.

After a night of paralyzing fear and confusion, I'd let him kiss me. And I'd kissed him back, choosing not to dwell on the reason why—

I almost laughed. The washcloth fell to the ground.

I knew why.

I blindly turned off the water.

I'd kissed him back, and I knew why. And that was what was wrong. It was all wrong. It was all backwards. I had it all fucking wrong.

I listened to the sink drain, the sticky gurgling squelching sounds pounding unrelentingly into my eardrums.

I'd kissed him back—

I sank to the floor, ignoring the lukewarm puddle seeping into the fabric of my dress. My ruined dress.

I'd kissed him back, because for the first time in ages—since I'd arrived in 1944—I'd felt safe.

I drew my knees to my chest.

Tom Riddle had made me feel safe.

I opened my eyes. The fluorescent bathroom light was harsh.

What did that even fucking _mean_? Nothing good, certainly.

I wiped my nose with my sleeve. I froze. And then my lips curved upwards, just the tiniest bit—

I was still wearing his jacket.

OOO

**Author's Note**: One of my darling readers very politely requested that I start placing my Author's Notes at the end of my chapters to avoid any awkward spoiler-alerting—I apologize if I've done that in the past, but I always write my notes after I've written the chapter, and it's never occurred to me that whoever's reading won't already know what's happened. I don't know if that makes sense—but either way. I'm terribly sorry. From here on out, anything I have to say about the posted chapter will be done down here.

That said, I'm exceptionally happy that Tom and Hermione's first kiss was received so well—I spent several days trying to decide how, exactly, I wanted it to happen, and how I wanted it to feel, and I quite liked the way it turned out. Anyway. Thank you all for reading/reviewing/etc—this story is stupidly fun to write, and I really am glad so many of you are enjoying it.

I'll try to update again before Christmas, but I'm not entirely sure that's going to happen. I normally have the luxury of being home alone most of the day, and since I write for a living anyway, it's pretty easy to justify throwing fanfiction onto the schedule, haha. But I have family coming into town and all of the holiday cheer _that _entails, so I don't know how much writing I'll be able to get done.

Also! For those of you who are interested (and happen to know French) the very talented _**Bleak Dawn**_ has begun translating this (as well as some of my other stories) into French. She's amazing. That is all.

Happy Holidays!

OOO


	10. IX

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER NINE**

_September 24, 1944_

_**"Don't be—"**_

_ What was I even going to __**say**__? Before Lestrange interrupted? I find that I can't remember. I was upset—uncommonly upset—because she was making nothing but sodding __**excuses**__—not even logical ones, not even close, and it was just so __**frustrating**__—_

_ I was going to argue, of course. I was going to tell her that there was nothing wrong with a mutually beneficial arrangement between two consenting adults—pretty words, really, for what I can only describe as an irrationally intense desire to fuck her raw in the middle of the entrance hall._

_**"Don't be—"**_

_ She has the most appalling ability to turn me stupidly reckless—for God's sake, I was ten minutes away from ravishing her in a public place, where anyone could have walked by. She's hardly unpredictable. It isn't __**that**__. But—I just wasn't expecting her to __**ask me to stop**__, not after she—well, not after she __**came**__._

_ I mean—_

_**Fuck**__._

_ She __**came**__. I gave her an orgasm—a rather good one, if the sounds she made were any indication—and I didn't even have to __**touch **__her. Not properly. And—God, but she tasted just as good as I'd thought she would, didn't she? Like a maddeningly decadent dessert; like chocolate and peppermint and something else, something salty and slightly tart—something that made my cock hard and my breath come faster, something that put the most __**asinine**__ fucking thought in my head—I found myself wanting to lick __**every fucking inch of her**__, wanting to run my tongue all the way down her neck, between her breasts, wanting to delve __**into**__ her cunt, just to try it, just to see what all the fuss was, just to be sure—_

_**"Don't be—"**_

_I do wish I'd actually managed to get my hand inside her knickers, though. I wish she hadn't asked me to stop. I wish—_

_ No._

_ It was unexpected, the way my body fit around hers. It was…exact. Precise. As if we were both made for—_

_ No._

_I am not going to write about her._

_ I __**will not**__ write about her._

_ She's made her feelings perfectly clear—_

_ No._

_Except—God, but her skin was fucking smooth. Like satin. It almost didn't feel real. And I wanted—_

_**No.**_

___This is fucking—_

_ My behavior around the insipid little twit is beyond inexplicable. It's mortifying. It's ridiculous. How many pretty girls—__**much**__ prettier than Granger—have thrown themselves at me over the years? I'm slated—however erroneously—to be the next Minister of Magic. I'm handsome. I'm charming. I could have anyone I want. I do __**not**__ need her. _

_ She has a tiny, nearly invisible cluster of freckles beneath her left eye. I want to count them. I want to be __**close enough**__ to her to count them. I want—_

_ No._

_**Enough**__._

_ No._

_ She's nothing special. Not really. And I shouldn't have kissed her. I should never have given in to that particularly moronic impulse. Because while her initial enthusiasm was encouraging, it was evident in the aftermath that she had not been…in control of herself when it happened. Understandably, as she'd suffered quite a shock at the hands of that scar-faced fucking miscreant, but—_

_ God._

_ I should have killed him. Lestrange left him there for me to do just that. But when I got outside and looked at him, sniveling and twitching and bloody, all I could see was Hermione's dress—shredded, torn, indicative of a truly repugnant sort of violence—and I was…rather overwhelmed. Not in the way I had been when confronted with my gutless reprobate of a father._

_ No._

_ This was decidedly different. I'm hesitant to label what I was feeling as something as mundane as __**anger**__—I suspect it went beyond that—__**far**__ beyond that—but I'm unsure…_

_ I'm unsure as to why._

_ When I first saw her clinging to Lestrange, it took me several moments to notice the state she was in. And then I'd thought—_

_ Well._

_ I'd thought that squirrely, middle-aged bastard the Malfoys hired had __**hurt **__her—in __**that**__ way, that way that is so reminiscent of my own mother's pitiful attempts at seduction that it makes me physically ill to even contemplate. (Or maybe I should call it what it ultimately was? Call the act by its rightful name? Very well. __**Rape**__. My mother was a repulsive fucking rapist who used love potions as liquid justification to give in to her own sordid lack of self-control. Left me with quite the nasty legacy, didn't she?)_

_ I don't even—_

_ Sex inspires such stupidity; rampant, unconscionable stupidity. It turns normally reasonable people into blithering bloody idiots. Granger, actually, is a fine example of its rather ubiquitous power. The girl loathes me on a personal level, but because of her unsolicited physical attraction—to __**me**__, not Malfoy, certainly not Malfoy—she can barely string a sentence together if I sit just the tiniest bit too close to her in the common room. To be fair, I seem to be affected in a similar—if not __**identical**__—fashion, but—_

_ Semantics, really._

_ The kidnapper said he was a Macmillan. A long-lost squib cousin—related, very distantly, to the excessively dour, incredibly unfortunate-looking Melania Macmillan. Granger's roommate. He was not particularly forthcoming about who he was and who he was working for—initially—but I'm nothing if not resourceful. Besides—his face was already a mess. What I did to him was practically an act of mercy. (It turns out Lestrange is __**more**__ than handy with a slicing hex. To say that I'm shocked by this development would be an insult to the emotion altogether. I used to occasionally wonder if his wand even worked. This is a happy surprise, indeed.)_

_ But Granger—_

_ Dumbledore has made a target out of her, just as surely as if he'd painted a bloody bulls-eye on her back. I can't decide if he's consciously using her as bait (for whom?)—or if he's willfully oblivious to the fact that claiming her as his niece has turned her into Undesirable Number One for anyone even remotely associated with Gellert Grindewald. The cover story he presumably supplied her with is shoddy—__**at best**__—and disastrously unbelievable at worst. I was poking holes in it before I was even properly suspicious of her. _

_ The most disconcerting part of the entire affair, however, is that Granger remains…ignorant of her own vulnerability. She trusts Dumbledore—I'm assuming that she's yet to fully figure out that he's little more than a duplicitous old man who likes to play God. She also seems to be genuinely fond of Malfoy—and harboring affection for lumbering blond oafs incapable of complex thought can only be considered a weakness. Additionally, her willingness to let Lestrange walk her to her room last night was…alarming. _

_Although—_

_I suspect she was merely trying to prove a point to me._

_Another problem._

_ She's ruled by her emotions. Her stubborn refusal to admit she's wrong, to concede defeat, to acknowledge, even temporarily, that antagonizing the Head Boy is hardly an intelligent move—God, she's like a bloody Gryffindor, isn't she? Rash and brash and utterly immune to level-headed deductive reasoning. Because if she was thinking—truly thinking—she would be aware of how precarious her position here is. Dumbledore obviously knows her secret. I'm hopeful that he's the only one she's confided in—it will make protecting her much easier. _

_ God._

_ It's extraordinary to even write it—let alone __**think it**__—_

_ The things she must know—_

_I've already deduced that she's heard of me, although the context is still somewhat murky—but still—_

_ I wonder how she'll react when I tell her that I know she's from the future._

_ I imagine she'll be furious._

_-TMR_

OOO

His face was untouched.

Pristine.

Smooth-skinned and pale and perfect—the usual array of dark purple qudditch bruises that marred his cheekbones had even disappeared.

And I was dumbfounded.

I'd been expecting, at the very least, for him to be permanently disfigured. Bruised and bloody and broken—I'd understood what Lestrange had been trying to tell me the night before, about how Riddle's displeasure with Abraxas could potentially manifest itself. Surely that meant bodily harm? Torture? A slew of Unforgivables followed by a magically induced beating?

But that wasn't what I found.

Not even close.

No, Abraxas was lying on an uncomfortably narrow bed in the hospital wing, his hands folded over his stomach, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and even. He looked…_normal_. Peaceful. Like nothing was wrong.

"Abraxas?" I said uncertainly.

His eyes flew open. They were clear and grey.

"Hermione?"

"You're awake," I noted dumbly. I sat down.

"'Course I'm awake," he replied, tossing a devilish wink in my direction. "S'not every day a pretty girl comes to visit me in bed, now is it?"

I smiled weakly.

"What are you doing in here?" I asked, picking at the corner of his white cotton blanket. "You look…well, you don't look sick."

He shrugged.

"Don't really know, love," he responded. "About an hour before I was going to meet you last night, I was talking to Tom and started feeling really sick, kind of like how I get before we have to play Gryffindor—it's a lot of pressure, you know, those bloody fucking self-righteous bastards have a _dynamite _seeker—but—what was I saying? Oh—yeah, anyway, so I started feeling nauseous, and…I'm not sure I remember much after that, actually. Might've passed out."

My jaw went slack.

"You mean—you really just had a stomach thing?"

"Must have," he said carelessly. "Seems to be all better now, though. Can't wait to get discharged. But how was the party? Were you alright going with Tom?"

I cringed. Did I want to tell him? He'd find out regardless—Lestrange had been there, after all—but explaining what had happened—reliving it—

I inwardly sighed.

It wasn't that. I wasn't a simpering little victim who was going to waste time hiding behind a fucking _memory_.

No. I was not.

Which meant that it was something else that was making me hesitant—reticent —_reluctant_—

It was the fact that I didn't know what to say about it. I didn't know anything. Not even the name of my attacker. And could I actually trust Abraxas? What did I _really_ know about him? He'd given me a ring—a betrothal ring—roughly three weeks after meeting me. A ring that, according to Riddle, had a plethora of nefarious properties so complicated I couldn't even begin to guess at them. He was a consummate flirt. He was overwhelmingly affectionate. He was mad for quidditch. He acted exactly like what he was purported to be—a rich, handsome, not-too-terribly-bright aristocrat.

Which should have been my first clue that something was off about him, shouldn't it? He was a walking fucking stereotype.

He was also a Slytherin.

And what had Tom—_Riddle_, I reminded myself sternly—told me about Slytherins? They were cunning. They were manipulative. They knew how to get what they wanted.

But what did Abraxas _want_?

"I…I didn't really make it to the party, actually," I replied slowly. "I was—well, I decided to go for a walk when I was done getting dressed, and there was an—an incident."

His brow furrowed.

"What kind of incident, love?"

I measured my words cautiously.

"I was attacked."

He bolted upright.

"Who the _fuck_ attackedyou? Were you wearing the ring I gave you? What the bloody fucking—does Tom know? Did you tell him? Who did it? Are you hurt? What the fuck _happened_?"

I blinked at the rapid succession of questions.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "I don't know who it was. Tom knows about what happened, though. He sent Edmond to look for me before the party. Why would it matter if I was wearing the ring you gave me?"

His ears turned red.

"Just that it could have told—" he broke off. "Never mind. It doesn't matter, love. Just—you're alright, then? Nothing…happened? Nothing bad, I mean?"

I smoothed my hand over a pleat in my skirt.

"He ruined the dress you bought me, but other than that, no. Nothing bad happened. Edmond got to me in time."

He visibly relaxed.

"Good," he grunted. "That's good, kitten."

My stomach lurched. _Kitten_. That's what _he_ had called me. The stranger. My attacker. It was a coincidence, obviously, of course it was a fucking coincidence—but—hearing it again, from _Abraxas_ of all people, was…unsettling.

Yes.

Unsettling.

That's all.

"Can you not call me that?" I asked, my discomfort evident.

He looked puzzled.

"Uh—sure," he replied. "I didn't mean to make you..."

"It's fine," I interjected quickly. "Sorry. It's not you. I just…don't like that word."

His confusion didn't dissipate.

"Alright, then."

I cleared my throat.

"Are you feeling better today?"

He scratched the back of his neck and shot me a sloppy, lopsided grin.

"Loads. But that could just be because you're here."

I winced. _Not this again_.

"Well," I said, getting to my feet and fiddling with the bottom of my jumper. "I should probably get going—"

"Abraxas!" A shrill, unpleasantly familiar voice ricocheted off the sterile white walls. The sound of frantically tapping heels immediately followed.

Abraxas's head fell back.

"Shit," he muttered. "Shit shit shit _shit_. She fucking found me."

Before I could respond, Melania Macmillan had wrenched open the privacy curtain around the bed and skidded to a panting, breathless halt. Her squinty brown eyes narrowed ferociously when they landed on me.

"Melania," I greeted her politely. "You seem…agitated. Whatever is the matter?"

She drew herself up indignantly.

"Tom Riddle was kind enough to inform me of Abraxas's condition when he didn't show up for breakfast this morning," she replied, sniffing. "I was concerned. I brought muffins."

It was then that I noticed the small wicker basket hanging from her arm. A checkered red and white napkin covered the interior.

"How lovely!" I exclaimed, holding back a laugh as Abraxas grimaced. "But, Melania, Abraxas's…_condition_…is actually a stomach complaint. I'm not sure that muffins are all that appropriate."

She compressed her lips into a thin, flat line.

"What did _you _bring him, then?"

"Nothing, unfortunately," I replied cheerfully. "I'm not _nearly _as thoughtful of a friend as you are."

Abraxas began to cough loudly.

"I should really get going, though," I continued, ignoring Abraxas's groan of dismay and making my way to the infirmary door. "I have quite a bit of homework to do."

"Of course," Melania said sweetly. "Oh—Hermione, I meant to ask you. How was Slughorn's party last night? You were in bed by the time I got back from the library."

Startled, I turned back towards her. She looked mildly curious, but she seemed…skittish. I absentmindedly began to fiddle with the Malfoy ring on my finger. Her body jerked slightly, almost of its own volition, and the napkin covering her basket slipped to the side.

"I didn't make it, actually. Had a bit of an accident."

She reached up to run a hand through her lank black hair. The basket swayed. I watched as the napkin fell to the ground.

"That's too bad," she cooed. "Is everything alright?"

I licked my lips.

"Everything's fine, Melania," I replied, pushing open the door. "Riddle was there. If you're at all interested, I'm sure he'd be glad to tell you what happened."

And then I nodded my farewell to Abraxas, walked sedately to the nearest girls' washroom, and threw up my breakfast.

Her basket had been empty.

OOO

Much later that day, I was wandering through the empty Charms corridor, heading for the Great Hall, when a large, strong hand wrapped itself around my wrist and pulled me into an empty alcove. I gasped, reaching for my wand, before a deep, explicitly sensual voice stopped me.

"Calm down, Granger. It's just me."

I glanced up as my assailant stepped out of the shadows.

"_Riddle_? What—why—what do you think you're _doing_?"

He was staring down at me, his lips—blood-red, thin, and unimaginably soft—curled up very slightly at the corners. Something strange and hot flashed across his eyes.

"I told you I'd find you today, didn't I?"

I exhaled impatiently.

"You might have mentioned it," I ground out.

He slowly let go of my wrist, dragging his thumb along my wildly beating pulse point. My mouth went dry.

"Then what's wrong?"

He casually leaned to the side, resting his shoulder against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"What's _wrong_?" I echoed disbelievingly. "What's _wrong_ is that you—you basically _attacked _me! Unnecessarily! After what happened last night—I thought you might be…well. I'm sure you can imagine who I thought you might be."

He regarded me steadily.

"I apologize," he replied. "I didn't realize you were still so shaken by your ordeal. I should have done. Forgive me."

I twisted Malfoy's ring around my finger and trained my gaze on his face. He looked serious.

"What did you want to talk to me about, Riddle?"

His expression flickered.

"Can I ask you something, Granger?"

My posture went rigid.

"That depends, I suppose, on what it is that you want to ask me."

He half-smiled. My stomach fluttered. I told myself that it didn't.

"That's quite the diplomatic response."

"Surprised?" I asked sarcastically.

"Very."

I frowned.

"Why?"

"Because you're not a Slytherin," he replied nonchalantly.

My eardrums crumbled, collapsed, fell to pieces—because there was suddenly nothing, my head was empty, there was nothing but white noise and ragged breathing and a dreadful, debilitating certainty that he fucking _knew_. But he couldn't. He didn't. There was no way. He couldn't know.

"Tell me something, Hermione," he went on. "Which house were you sorted into the first time around?"

I couldn't seem to speak. He'd rendered me speechless, hopeless, and even as every last functional part of my brain was screaming at me to _deny deny deny_—my voice wouldn't work. Nothing was fucking working. He knew. He'd found me out. He knew. What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to say?

"You know," I finally whispered.

It wasn't a question, and I felt my pulse grind to a screeching, desperate halt.

"Of course I know," he scoffed. "You didn't really believe you could keep a secret like that for very long, did you?"

A blanketing sense of self-preservation finally kicked in.

"What are you going to do about it?"

He gave me a crooked smile.

"I haven't decided yet," he drawled.

"I somehow doubt that."

His gaze sharpened.

"Does Malfoy know?"

I cocked my head to the side, incredulous.

"Why in the world would I have told _Abraxas_ about this? Do you think I'm stupid?"

He pointedly shrugged. I felt a brief, belated surge of anger.

"Isn't he your boyfriend?" he sneered.

"Of course he isn't," I hissed defensively. "Which you know. And—even if he was, that wouldn't change anything. No one was supposed to find out about this. No one was supposed to know."

"And now that _I_ do…" he trailed off, tapping his long, pale fingers against his forearms.

"What are you going to do? What do you want from me?" I demanded.

"I actually haven't decided yet," he responded. "Although—really, Hermione, you're taking all of this the wrong way. I'm not threatening you."

"No? Are you sure about that? Because that sounds _exactly _like what you're doing."

His expression shifted into one of obvious boredom.

"As entertaining as it is to listen to you accuse me of…despicable deeds, I believe we have more important things to discuss. Like the attempt that was made on your life last night. Can I assume that it's occurred to you that someone other than me has discovered your embarrassingly ill-kept secret?"

I gaped at him.

"Are you—well, are you trying to _help_ me?" My voice sounded small, even to my own ears.

He appeared taken aback by my inquiry.

"Is there a reason that I wouldn't?"

I couldn't fucking help it; I laughed.

"More than one, actually. But I suppose that doesn't matter now."

He shot me an odd look.

"How is it that you know so much about me, Granger?"

I hesitated.

"You're rather well-known where I come from," I said delicately.

He straightened.

"Really."

"Really," I confirmed.

He studied me for a long, awkward moment while I fidgeted nervously.

"What am I known for, Hermione?"

"You don't really expect me to tell you, do you?"

He stepped closer, bracing his hands on either side of my head as he leaned forward. The effect was instantaneous. I couldn't fucking breathe. He was too close. He smelled too good. I wanted to kiss him. Panic seized me.

"You'll tell me one day, sweetheart," he said smugly, running the back of his hand down my cheek. "And you'll do it soon."

I stiffened.

"I most certainly will _not._"

"You will," he said sharply. "Or I'll find a way to make you."

I straightened my shoulders and glowered.

"I _highly _doubt—"

"Take the ring off," he interrupted suddenly.

"How dare—wait, _what_?"

"The ring," he repeated, motioning towards my hand. "Take it off."

I didn't move.

"Why?"

His sighed angrily.

"Because I _said so_, Granger."

Our eyes locked—and that was when I realized that I'd made a grave error in pushing him so far. Tom Riddle was not a bratty schoolyard bully who wouldn't bother to hex me unless my back was turned. No. He was fucking _dangerous_. He killed people. He had _minions_, for God's sake. And what had Lestrange said about him last night?

Riddle always got what he wanted.

I slowly slid the ring off.

"What does it do?"

His expression was unreadable.

"What makes you think it does anything?" he countered.

"You've seemed awfully obsessed with it ever since you saw Abraxas give it to me," I replied testily. "Stands to reason that it does _something_. Unless—you're not _jealous_, are you, Riddle? Is that it?"

He grinned.

"No, sweetheart, I'm not jealous. Would you like it if I was?" he mused. "I think you might."

My mouth tightened.

"Why would I like it if you were jealous?"

"Call it…intuition," he replied. "The very same intuition that tells me that you'd never let Malfoy touch you the way that I did last night."

My nostrils flared.

"You didn't _really _touch me, though," I pointed out. "You kissed me. Which Abraxas has already done."

He jerked his head slightly to the side, as if staving off a wince.

"Ah, so _that's_ what I was tasting," he shot back nastily. "Malfoy's sloppy seconds."

I clutched the ring securely between my fingers.

"Shove off, Riddle. Just tell me what this—this _thing_ does. You promised. Last night. You promised you'd explain," I reminded him, my voice unsteady.

He pursed his lips.

"Are you a muggle-born?" he asked abruptly.

A jagged thread of fear wove its way through my spine.

"_Excuse_ me?"

"It's a simple question, Granger. Are you or are you not a muggle-born?" he repeated irritably.

I paused.

"I—I'm—I don't see why that matters," I responded hotly.

"So you are," he deduced, nodding thoughtfully. "Well. That makes much more sense, doesn't it?"

My heart stalled. My hand drifted to my forearm, trembling fingers tracing the outline of my scar through the thin cotton of my shirt.

_Mudblood_.

_Mudblood. _

_Mudblood._

And thenI heard voices—memories—distant and fading, overlapping, ruffling through my head like so many pages in a book—Draco Malfoy was scowling at me from across the Hogwarts courtyard, his pale, pointed face scrunched up derisively, his lips moving in slow-motion as he mouthed that word, that hateful fucking word, and I heard it for the very first time—_mudblood_—and then there was Bellatrix Lestrange and her mad, high-pitched cackle, her wand raised, her eyes trained on the blood seeping slowly, so fucking slowly, onto the floor beneath me—_mudblood_—and the Snatchers, dirty and grimy and disgusting, refusing to call me by name, only using that word, over and over, as if I was nothing else, no one else, had no real identity—

_Mudblood._

_Mudblood._

_Mudblood._

And the perpetrator of a thousand different atrocities—all directed at people like me, people he thought didn't belong—had apparently fucking _guessed _that I was a muggle-born.

_Bloody fantastic_.

"Are you going to hurt me?" I demanded, shoving a shaking hand into my bag and fumbling for my wand.

His face twisted.

"Why would I _hurt _you?"

I stopped moving. _What the bloody fuck_?

"Because I'm a _mudblood_," I spat.

His eyebrows rose.

"I'm not making the connection, sweetheart," he replied, his voice even. "You're going to have to spell it out for me."

"You—you hate muggle-borns," I mumbled, confused. "You—Lestrange—all of you. That's all you talk about at meals."

He toyed with his cufflinks and chuckled. The sound was unsettling.

"I'm not going to bother explaining myself to you," he said with no small measure of amusement. "But suffice it to say—whatever conclusions you've drawn about my…political beliefs—they're the means to an end, sweetheart. That's all."

I made a truly valiant effort to hide my astonishment. I was quite sure that I failed.

"Oh. _Oh_. I don't—oh."

"Indeed."

"So…why did you want to know if I was a muggle-born, then? What does it matter?"

He eyed me speculatively.

"You don't know anything about the ring," he replied, loosening his tie. "I surmised that either ancestral rings are no longer used in your time—which is hugely unlikely, as people like the Malfoys tend to summarily reject anything that could even be loosely defined as 'change'—_or_ that you've never been exposed to any Pureblood customs before now. Which would make you a mud—muggle-born. Sorry. Force of habit. I'm sure you understand."

"I see. So the Malfoy ring—it's part of a…ritual?"

"Not exactly."

I huffed.

"Then what is it _for_?"

"I told you," he said evasively. "It's a betrothal gift."

I rolled my eyes.

"You're such a Slytherin."

His lips twitched.

"It's hardly my fault you're asking the wrong questions, sweetheart."

"Fine. I'll play along. What does the ring _do_?"

He brushed his hair back from his face.

"It turns into a portkey."

My muscles felt like they disintegrated. The ring fell to the floor.

"_What_?"

"Shocking, isn't it?"

My vocal chords went limp.

"I don't understand."

"It's an antiquated sort of…fidelity failsafe," he explained, inspecting his fingernails. "Years and years ago, men expected their brides to be virgins, you understand. The engagement rings, which are passed down generationally, were imbued with various tracking spells, so that you always knew exactly where it was that your darling fiancée was spending the majority of her time. Eventually, though, _someone_ thought of attaching a clever little transportation charm as well—that way, should your bride-to-be happen to fancy a tumble with the gardener's son before the wedding, you could just activate the portkey and send her elsewhere, _virgo intacta_. It's actually quite a bit of impressive magic, isn't it?"

My thoughts raced through my head, trampling over one another, fighting for dominance—surely this wasn't _real_? What he was saying? Surely people—the fucking _Malfoys_—didn't actually do things like this?

"But that's _barbaric_!" I cried.

"It's certainly a bit much," he agreed. "It's also a rather crafty way to kidnap someone."

"Abraxas can't—he doesn't—he doesn't know about what it does," I insisted. But then I faltered. "Does he?"

He shrugged.

"What do you think?"

I glared at him helplessly.

"I don't think he would do that to me," I said, lifting my chin.

"You don't know him very well, then, do you?"

I didn't immediately reply.

"Who's trying to kidnap me?" I asked quietly. "I know that you know. You must."

He scowled.

"Why _must_ I know, Granger? Are you insinuating that I'm _involved_? Because I'm definitely not—"

I cut him off.

"You _must_ know, because you said last night that you'd tell me _everything_," I snapped. "You know about where I'm from. You know about the stupid ring. What else do you know? What did you find out about the man who attacked me?"

He was silent for a tense, telling second.

"He's a Macmillan," he answered eventually. "A squib cousin. Disowned, presumably. He claimed not to know who hired him."

My mind reeled.

"So, Melania—" I began.

"More than likely had nothing to do with it," he finished for me, shaking his head. "If I had to guess, I'd say that this was primarily about sending a…message, of sorts, to your make-believe uncle."

"Is that why you didn't want me to tell him what happened?"

He nodded.

"You think that I'm stupid for trusting Dumbledore," I said bitterly.

He snorted.

"I think that if he was genuinely concerned for your wellbeing he would have come up with a much more convincing cover story for you."

I flushed.

"Look, _Riddle_," I seethed. "Professor Dumbledore is brilliant and funny and kind and—and he's been quite helpful in trying to find a way for me to get home. So, if you think, for even one minute, that you're going to succeed in turning me against him, you can just—"

"God, you sound like a bloody Gryffindor," he interjected, wrinkling his nose.

"I _am _a bloody Gryffindor."

A fleeting glimmer of surprise passed across his features.

"How…disappointing."

"This is ridiculous. I'm going to dinner. You've been useless."

I made a move to brush past him. He grabbed my elbow. His grip was tight. It felt unrelenting.

"What did you mean when you said that Dumbledore is trying to find a way for you to get home? He's working on time travel? How far has he gotten?"

I yanked my arm out of his grasp.

"I don't believe that that's _any _of your business."

His lip curled.

"Why would you even want to go back?" he asked. "Are they really that much nicer to mudbloods in the future?"

I froze.

"Don't call me that," I whispered.

"I'll call you whatever I want, _mudblood_," he retorted, bending down to pick up the forgotten ring. "You seem to have absolutely no reservations about throwing my efforts at civility right back in my face, so please, _excuse me_ if being polite to you is no longer a fucking priority."

I exhaled harshly.

"I said—don't _call _me that."

He didn't look away.

"_Mudblood_," he murmured slowly, deliberately.

I shuddered.

_Mudblood_. Mudblood—that fucking word—again and again, it followed me, haunted me, always there to _remind _me that I didn't belong, not really, not ever, and it was _him_, this boy, who was using it now, carelessly, like it didn't matter—and I'd had enough.

_Enough_.

I was fucking done.

"Is that how you want to play it, Riddle?" I asked, my voice low—_deadly_. "You want to call me names? Like that makes _you_ any better? _You_, with your inbred mother and your weak, pathetic, _muggle_ father? Remind me what that makes you?"

I was taunting him. I wanted his mask to drop. I wanted to know what his face looked like when he was angry, truly angry, when he wasn't hiding behind pleasantries and charmingly polite smiles—I wanted him to fall apart, like I had_, finally finally finally_, and I wanted him to understand what it felt like, just once, to feel something, to feel _this_, this all-consuming _rage_ that had blinded me and stifled me and made my veins feel too thin, too small, too pitifully inadequate to contain the rushing, crushing flood of blood being pumped through my heart—

I wanted—

I wanted him to _break_. I wanted him to hurt. I wanted him to be out of control and out of his mind and full—absolutely full—of confusion and conjecture and uncertainty—and I wanted him to not know what to do, to not have a single fucking clue, and I wanted him to understand—how badly I wanted him to fucking understand—what it felt like to lose, to be lost, to not be able to guess—not at all, not even a little bit—what might come next.

And when he did—when it happened—I wanted to fucking _watch_.

It didn't matter to me that I was being vindictive. It didn't matter to me that I was being cruel. Because he was holding that ridiculous fucking ring, the one that was now a beautifully gilded symbol of everything I _didn't know_ about the people I was forced to live with; and when he'd touched me the previous evening, he'd known exactly what he was doing, exactly how he was affecting me, and—and—he hadn't fucking _cared_, he'd just run his hands underneath my dress and expected me to _take it_, and he was always so in control, he always knew what he was doing and what he was saying and how it would make me feel—and it wasn't fucking _fair_, it just wasn't, because even though I'd been the one to ask him to stop kissing me—

I'd still had to _ask_, hadn't I?

"What do you know about my father, Granger?" he demanded, a muscle ticking deliciously in his jaw.

_Close. I was close. He was close_.

"I know that he didn't want you," I sneered. "I know that your mother had to _drug_ him to get him anywhere near her, and I know that he _abandoned_ her when she told him what she was. I know that he was _ashamed_ of you, of your magic, of your _existence_. You were an _embarrassment_ to him, weren't you, Riddle? Isn't that what he told you when you went to go find him? When you went to go see if _Daddy_ might still want you?"

He was blinking rapidly, his eyes downcast, his throat unnaturally stiff as he tried, repeatedly, to swallow—_so close, so close, I was so fucking close_.

"He was nothing to me, Granger," he managed to hiss. "_Nothing_."

I snorted.

"Is that why you killed him, then?" I asked mockingly.

And that was when he snapped.

"That is _it_!" he shouted, lunging forward and shoving me into the wall. My head cracked against the stone, my vision going dark for a split-second before returning, spotty and sparse. "You think you know things about me—you think you know who I am and what I've done and that that makes you _special_? Is that it? You think you're fucking _special_, because you know some of my secrets?"

He was clutching my shoulders, jerking my body upwards so that his mouth was mere inches away from my own, and his fury was palpable in the narrow, confined space of the hallway, and—his breath smelled like coffee. I didn't want to notice that. I didn't want to care. I didn't want to _want to_ eliminate the distance between us and capture his lips and find out if he actually tasted as good—as fucking _spectacular_—as I remembered.

"You have no idea what I'm capable of, you stupid, _stupid_ girl," he snarled, yanking my face up, up, even closer to him. So much closer. "_No idea_."

I bit down on the inside of my mouth. My teeth gnashed together. I drew blood.

"_Actually_, Riddle," I retorted tremulously, "I know _exactly _what you're capable of. I'm from the future, remember?"

He abruptly released me. I fell against the wall. Tangy copper liquid splashed across the back of my tongue.

"I'm only going to say this _once_, Granger," he hissed. "One time. That's it. You get _one_ fucking warning."

I fought the urge to spit up blood.

"Go on, then," I challenged.

He raised his wand. I instinctively recoiled.

"If you ever—and I do mean _ever_—bring up my father again in my presence, I will kill you. I will kill you slowly. I will make it hurt. I will make it so bloody _agonizing_ that you will _wish _that I was torturing you into insanity instead. Do you understand?"

My tonsils contracted.

"I—"

He slashed his wand through the air and pointed the tip at my neck.

"Do—you—fucking—_understand_?" he roared.

I nodded jerkily.

"Yes. Yes. I—I understand."

He appraised me silently, up and down, his eyes roving haphazardly—insultingly—over my quivering limbs.

And then he pocketed his wand and smiled brightly.

Insincerely.

"Well. Glad we cleared that up, sweetheart. Oh—and thank you for this," he said, his tone pleasant as he held up the Malfoy ring. "It will be quite useful. Can I escort you to dinner?"

I stared at him, something that felt rather a lot like _horror _welling up in my chest—why did I keep allowing myself to treat him like a normal eighteen year-old boy? He wasn't normal. He wasn't anything like anyone I'd ever known. How many different ways did he need to prove that to me before I took the fucking hint and stopped trying to fight him?

"I—I suppose," I stammered, reaching for his outstretched arm. Residual drops of blood—warm and sticky—lingered on my lips as I licked them. I quickly tamped down my revulsion.

"I should also mention, Hermione, that I don't like to share what's mine," he said conversationally as he led me down the hallway.

I clenched my jaw, relishing the slight twinge of pain that shot through the bone as I ground down hard, harder, too hard, much too hard—what was it that Dumbledore had said to Harry, when he had first told him about the horcruxes?

Voldemort liked trophies.

Voldemort liked trophies, and that's exactly what he was implying that I was. I was a possession—something flashy and interesting and maybe even pretty—that he'd stolen from Abraxas Malfoy and now wanted to keep for himself.

I was a trophy, and I was humiliated.

"I see," I finally mumbled.

He glanced down at me, his dark eyes slightly narrowed.

"Do you?"

I met his gaze without flinching.

"Yes. I do."

He smirked.

"Smart girl."

It wasn't a compliment.

But he didn't say another word to me as we walked to dinner.

Not even one.

OOO

**Author's Note**: Hello, darlings! I am so so so so sorry this took so long to get up! The holidays were a bit of a mess for me, and since then I've had absolutely no time to myself. Sincerest apologies. I'll try to get the next chapter up in the next couple of days to make up for how badly I lagged on this one. (To be fair, though, this chapter is almost twice as long as the ones I usually post. So there.)

Anyway! I'm glad you're all enjoying this so much. I've been trying to do something very sneaky and very specific with the plot, and judging from the reviews I've been getting, I'm succeeding, so…I'm pleased with the way things are going.

I realize Hermione was a bit of a bitch at the end of this chapter, but it made sense to me that she would be angry (belatedly and irrationally) about what happened the night before. So much of Tom and Hermione's relationship is about power and control, even if it's not necessarily obvious, and it's important, I think, to highlight her frustration with him every so often. (Deep, dark confession—making Tom and Hermione fall in love is, in all probability, the most fascinating thing I've ever attempted to write. Draco Malfoy's endearing insecurities have absolutely nothing on Tom's various sociopathic…_quirks_. I'll always go back to Dramione, but in case I haven't mentioned it recently—I'm so incredibly happy that I decided to try out this pairing. Seriously. It's wonderful.)

Speaking of Draco, though—for those of you who are interested, I posted a Dramione one-shot over Christmas. It's first-person Draco, which was a bit of a challenge for me, and I'm actually really, really in love with how it turned out. It's called _When Tomorrow Comes_.

Also—thank you to all of you who review every chapter. I'm going to try my best to start responding individually, but it might take me awhile to get the hang of it, haha. I'm antisocial. (Not really. Maybe really. I don't know. I have a lot of cats.)

xoxo Andrea

OOO


	11. X

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: So just to be clear: there is a three-week gap between Tom's diary entry and the events that occur in the rest of the chapter. I needed to skip ahead, but I also wanted to include his thoughts on what happened at the end of the last chapter. I hope it isn't confusing for anyone. Also—a warning for those of you who don't care for smut—it gets a little graphic at the end of this chapter (I'm definitely earning the 'M' rating, haha). You could skip it, I suppose, if you're really that bothered by it, but I'm actually pretty proud of the scene as a whole and it's a bit of a turning point for Hermione and Tom, so…I would recommend reading it. Enjoy!

OOO

**CHAPTER TEN**

_September 25, 1944_

_ Malfoy was released from the hospital wing this morning. His face—his pointed, stupid, aristocratic face—when he came down to breakfast and saw me holding her hand…_

_ God, it was priceless._

_ Partially shocked, partially confused, but mostly furious. And while watching him throw up his dinner on Friday night was entertaining—in its own way—slow-acting poison is inherently too subtle of a punishment for my tastes. Stealing Granger from him was much more satisfying. Even if the tactics I had to use to do so were…slightly unorthodox._

_ However—_

_I shouldn't have—_

_ Fuck._

_**Fuck**__._

_ I shouldn't have threatened to kill her. In retrospect, that was quite a bad move on my part. But, really, it couldn't have been helped. She was just being such a—_

_ Such a __**cunt**__. _

_ Yes. A cunt. I know I've called her that before, but __**honestly**__—the things she was saying—I just wanted to fucking hurt her. Desperately. I just wanted to make her __**stop talking**__. By any means necessary. I wanted her to stop. I wanted to make her stop. Because what she was saying—God, she was acting as if she __**knew**__ about what happened last summer. As if she knew __**me**__. Knew what had motivated me. As if she has any fucking clue about what my life has been like. And she was so arrogant and presumptuous and completely fucking infuriating and I wanted—_

_ Fuck it all, I wanted to fuck her senseless. _

_Which wasn't a viable option for a multitude of very good, very logical reasons. She has been nothing but a distraction—a debilitating distraction, at that. My Knights all believe me to be obsessed—which is insulting, but not entirely inaccurate. I would like to think myself above petty adolescent urges—God, didn't I spend most of fourth year trying to convince myself I didn't even need to wank? __**That **__was a bloody disaster—and up until now, I __**have been**__. There have never been any girls that made me consider ridiculous things like companionship and empty broom cupboards and where one might procure out-of-season flowers. (She'd probably like roses. White roses. I'll have to send Lestrange to the greenhouses.)_

_It's just—_

_It's her face. She has such delicate features. She almost looks…breakable. Her outward appearance is so at odds with her personality; she fights with me like she thinks she has a chance of winning. I confess that I don't know what to make of that. And she is stuck here, in a time and place she doesn't belong to, surrounded by people who she would be an absolute imbecile to trust—she is __**alone**__, in the truest sense of the word, and I get the impression that that is not something she is used to. _

_Which makes me wonder._

_How difficult would it really be to gain her trust? _

_Because as curious as I am about my own future, I always find myself distracted by the force of her animosity whenever she brings it up. The way she glares at me—God, it's like I strangled a puppy right in front of her. It's ludicrous. _

_And somewhat exciting. _

_Because it implies that at least some of my plans come to fruition. _

_Why else would she loathe me to such a degree? She's an irritating Gryffindor muggle-born. I can't imagine that my future-self was overly kind to her. Indeed, her disdain for everything she seems to be under the impression I represent—it would be amusing, I think, if it wasn't so damnably inconvenient. I could always use Legilimency, of course. I confess that I have no real idea of her intellectual capabilities—I'm merely __**guessing**__ at the fact that she is marginally less moronic than the majority of her behavior has indicated—but I do not think she is an Occlumens. Her fear the other day, when she thought that I'd already entered her mind, was genuine. _

_No._

_Not an Occlumens._

_Getting into her head would be laughably easy. Except—_

_She would hate me._

_**She already hates me**__._

_She would have a reason to if I did this, though. It would be an invasion of her privacy. An—__**assault**__, really. And she's defenseless. It would be unethical. Not that ethics are a particular concern of mine, but—_

_She would never forgive me. _

_**She already hates me**__._

_Fuck._

_Perhaps if I was gentle—_

_No. She would know. She would know, and she would run right back to Malfoy and probably __**beg **__him to marry her._

_No._

_**Fuck**__. _

_No._

_Legilimency is a last resort. I can be patient. Not that I need to be—_

_**She already hates me.**_

_Would alienating her really make that much of a difference? She'll eventually be expendable. God knows Dumbledore's already given her a shelf life. But after all the trouble I've gone through to keep her safe…it seems almost sacrilegious to discard her like that. Surely I deserve some kind of reward? _

_No._

_Yes._

_**Fuck.**_

_She really is a cunt._

_-TMR_

OOO

_October 15, 1944_

Pretending to be Tom Riddle's girlfriend was…uncomfortable.

He rarely left my side. His arm was constantly draped over my shoulders, wrapped around my waist; an obvious reminder to anyone who cared to look that I was _his_. He was polite. He was charming. He was a perfect gentleman. He held open doors, pulled out my chair during lessons, and presented me with a single white rose every Monday morning before breakfast.

But he never touched me. Not really. Not like he had the night I'd been attacked. He gave me cold, perfunctory kisses on the cheek when we were in public, and in private—well, in private he barely even looked at me. We never talked about where I'd come from. We never talked about what had happened between us.

And it had been almost three weeks.

I often wondered what he got out of our unspoken arrangement. He'd essentially blackmailed me—in an indirect, completely Slytherin fashion—into being in a relationship with him. Except—and this was the part that confused me—it wasn't _actually _a relationship. He didn't expect sex. He didn't appear to garner any real enjoyment from my company. Our conversations were stilted and sparse; he spent most of our time together reading or doing homework.

It was, for lack of a better description, utterly fucking bizarre.

And from the very first morning, when he'd laced his fingers through mine and smugly led me into the Great Hall—things had changed. Dumbledore had stopped requesting meetings with me. Abraxas spent inordinate amounts of time scowling. Lestrange avoided eye contact altogether.

Three weeks. Three weeks I'd been playing the part of besotted girlfriend. And now—well, now we were in the Slytherin common room. It was past curfew. We were alone. He was seated at a table next to the fireplace, a Potions essay lying half-completed in front of him. I was comfortably ensconced in a heavily brocaded emerald green sofa, lazily flipping through the pages of my Transfiguration text. And I was bored. Bored, and tired, and just the tiniest bit reckless—because before I could stop myself, before I could think too hard about what I was doing—

I exhaled loudly.

"Riddle."

He didn't bother looking up.

"I thought I told you to call me Tom."

I clenched my jaw.

"Fine. _Tom_. Can we talk?"

He put down his quill with a dramatic sigh.

"What is it?" he asked coolly.

I didn't hesitate.

"Why are you doing this?"

His expression remained impassive.

"Doing what?"

"This…arrangement," I said delicately, shifting in my seat. "What do you get out of it? There are about a hundred other girls here who you _wouldn't _need to blackmail into dating you, so I don't understand why you're doing it to _me_."

His lips twitched.

"Think rather highly of yourself, don't you, Granger?"

I felt a faint flush creep up the back of my neck.

"Doesn't really matter what I think, does it?"

He leveled a shrewd glance in my direction.

"No, it doesn't," he agreed. And then he turned his attention back to his essay. My mouth fell open.

"Why is it so difficult for you to answer a simple question?" I demanded.

He shrugged.

"It isn't."

My head began to pound.

"I don't know why I even bothered," I muttered.

"You're a Gryffindor," he said easily. "You have no self-control. Or discipline. I doubt you think very hard before you open that pretty little mouth of yours."

I crossed my arms over my chest.

"No _discipline_?" I repeated indignantly. "No _discipline_—for your _information_, Riddle, I not only had the highest marks out of anyone else in my year—I had the highest marks in half a_ century_! I got _eleven _bloody O.W.L.'s! Eleven! I was supposed to be a Ravenclaw!"

Something like satisfaction gleamed in his eyes.

"Then why all the mediocrity? Here, I mean. For God's sake, _Lestrange _scored higher than you on our last Charms quiz."

I shot him a withering glare.

"Why do you _think_? I'm supposed to…blend in," I said disdainfully.

He suddenly grinned.

"Well, that's a bit of a relief."

I looked at him quizzically.

"Why?"

"Because I'd rather not be dating an imbecile."

I snorted.

"We're _fake_ dating, Riddle. Do try and keep up."

He chuckled.

"To answer your previous question—I have a vested interest in keeping you safe. And since you can't be trusted to stay out of trouble…" he trailed off.

I stiffened.

"_Excuse_ me?"

He leaned back in his chair.

"You heard what I said, Granger. You and your eleven O.W.L.'s can't play dumb now."

I slowly stood up.

"So, _what_, because someone tried to _attack me_ three weeks ago—that's my fault? And means I can't take care of myself? You—you—you're such a—a misogynistic _prick_!"

He rolled his eyes.

"Really?" he asked. "That's the best you could do?"

"I'm perfectly capable of—"

"I'm sure you are," he interrupted, his tone nothing short of patronizing. "But the facts are…irrefutable. You trusted Albus Dumbledore. He provided you with a _horrendously _inadequate cover story—did he even ask you if you could speak French? No? I thought not—and then you rather stupidly ran to the _Room of bloody Requirement _and asked for the bloody _Gryffindor common room_—a room, I might add, which you shouldn't have had any prior knowledge of whatsoever. You accepted a betrothal ring from a Malfoy—a _Malfoy_!—and refused to take it off—_just to spite me_.

"You took a note from Melania Macmillan—a girl who loathes the entirety of your being with a fairly disturbing amount of enthusiasm—and _actually believed the bloody signature_ at the bottom of it! I don't know how many different ways to explain this to you. _You are in danger_. Whatever objections you might have to me personally—I couldn't give any less of a bloody fuck! I can keep you safe. I _will _keep you safe. And if I have to…_feign_ some measure of affection for you in public to do so—_fine by me_."

My fingernails dug into my palms. _Rage_ was rather too small of a word for what I felt just then—no, I needed something with more syllables, something longer and much harder to say out loud.

"You aren't my _protector_, Riddle," I spat. "I never asked—"

"And you're _still _not listening!" he shouted, abruptly kicking his chair back and getting to his feet.

"And _you _still aren't answering my questions!" I shot back. "Why are you _bothering _to protect me? What do you get out of this?"

He sneered.

"What do I get out of it?" He let out a harsh bark of mirthless laughter. "I get a Seer without the all of the annoying, insipid ambiguity. I get someone who probably knows all of the silly, careless mistakes I'll ever make, and can tell me how to avoid them before they ever have a chance of happening. Do you really not understand how valuable you are? Has it not even _occurred to you_ why people are out to get you?"

I felt a sharp pang of disappointment—which I quickly brushed aside.

"Why would you think I would ever tell you _anything_?" I asked, incredulous. "The timeline—I have to preserve it. My existence here…it's fragile. Every day that goes by, I wonder if I've done or said something unforgivable—God, I'm _terrified _of just—just _fading away_. Disappearing altogether. Telling you about the future would be beyond irresponsible. I'll _never_ do it."

His expression didn't change.

"You're always so angry, Granger," he remarked casually. "Angry and scared and defensive. In fact, I don't think I've ever even seen you laugh. Not properly. Why is that?"

I gaped at him.

"You're not serious."

He quirked a brow.

"Quite serious."

I felt a prickly sense of foreboding.

"Oh, I don't know," I drawled sarcastically. "Maybe it's because I'm _trapped _fifty years in the past with a bunch of strangers who can't decide if they want to kill, maim, or marry me. That might have _something_ to do with my surly disposition. So sorry if it offends you."

He paused.

"Fifty years? That far?" he whispered, almost to himself.

I winced. _Fuck_.

"I didn't—" I started to say.

"No, no, I know," he interjected impatiently. "You didn't mean to tell me that. But…God. Fifty _years_. That's—well."

I straightened my shoulders.

"I'm not telling you anything else," I said defiantly. "_Nothing_."

He approached me slowly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"That's disappointing. But while it would be nice of you to _willingly _tell me what I want to know…it isn't necessary."

I stared at him for a long, confusing moment. God, but he really was physically perfect, wasn't he? His entire face was a study in contrast—pale skin, dark eyes, red lips—and I marveled at the fact that he was even real. And that was when I found myself thinking—

_What a fucking waste_.

Because he was brilliant and handsome and in possession of a truly magnetic kind of charisma—I could almost understand how he'd accumulated so many mindless, sycophantic followers. I could watch the way he manipulated Lestrange and Malfoy—the way he intimidated them without even having to speak—and appreciate the sheer _force_ of his personality. He was special. He was exceptional. And all I wanted to do was ask him _why _he was going to turn out the way that I knew he would.

As if it mattered.

As if he might even know.

"Aren't you getting sick of threatening me, Riddle? I'm beginning to think it's all you know how to do."

He smirked.

"Not _all _I know how to do, sweetheart," he replied pointedly.

I flinched. And then I turned away from him and took a deep breath.

"Why do you call me that?" I asked shakily.

"Call you what?"

"_Sweetheart_. You don't seem the type for…endearments."

He stepped closer, molding his chest to my back. My breath hitched.

"Well, you tend to throw a fit when I call you by your first name," he murmured, his lips just barely brushing my ear. "_Sweetheart_."

I shivered.

"I'm—I'm not sure what you mean," I stammered.

His drummed his fingers against the curve of my waist.

"Indeed," he replied. "You scrunch your nose up and bite your lip and—God, it drives me absolutely mad."

I swallowed.

"Mad?" I asked weakly.

His grip tightened.

"Do you even know what you do to me?" His voice was husky and deep. I felt it rumble through his chest.

"No," I choked out.

He pushed his hips forward. I could feel him—_all _of him—against my backside. I shut my eyes.

"_That _is what you do to me," he hissed, slowly moving one of his hands across my abdomen. "Feel that, sweetheart? Feel how fucking hard I am?"

_Lower_, I inwardly pleaded, _just a bit lower_.

"Y-yes," I managed to say.

His fingers—his long, elegant, dexterous fingers—toyed with the buttons on my blouse.

_Come on. More. Lower. Keep going._

"It's all for _you_," he said. His breathing was coming thick and harsh and hot. "_Every_—_fucking_—_inch_."

He pulled up the bottom of my shirt. The cotton felt abrasive as it slid over my skin.

_More. More. Lower. Please._

"You don't—you don't say," I replied, biting back a whimper.

He slid his thumb under the waistband of my skirt. My thighs quivered.

_Keep going. Come on. Lower. More. Lower._

"I watch you, you know," he said, his teeth grazing the side of my neck. "When you think no one's looking. I watch the way you're ever-so fucking careful about crossing your legs when you sit down—making sure no one can see anything they're not supposed to, isn't that right? I've spent _hours_ imagining what your knickers look like. Imagining what _you_ look like _in _your knickers. They were green the night you were attacked. What color are they today, I wonder?"

He rubbed his thumb back and forth over my pelvic bone before dipping it lower. I stifled a gasp.

"I—I'm not sure," I answered unsteadily.

_Come on. Just a bit more. Lower. More. Please._

"Well, we can't have that," he said silkily. "You're going to let me see, aren't you, sweetheart? You're going to let me unzip this _appallingly_ tiny skirt and see what color they are. Aren't you?"

He skimmed his fingertips down the front of my knickers. I bit my lip. I couldn't speak. Not now. Not like this. If I opened my mouth, I would say yes. I would beg. I would tell him to tear my underwear off with his fucking _teeth _if he felt so inclined—because I needed something, something I barely understood, and I was absolutely fucking positive that he was the only one who could give it to me and _fucking hell_ but my entire body was buzzing, craving, a ticking tremulous waiting fucking time bomb and my skin felt like it was crawling, moving, and I felt so _empty_, like I'd been engulfed by a dark seeping aching emptiness and I needed—I needed—

_Lower. Please. Lower. Just like that._

"I hope they're white," he continued. "Thin white cotton, so I can see just how fucking wet you are. Do you want to show me, sweetheart? Right now? Do you want to show me how wet you are?"

I considered nodding—but the heel of his palm was pressed against my clit and his fingers were pushing into the lace of my knickers and _I couldn't fucking move_, my muscles were locked, frozen, and this was it, this was the moment I was going to give up give in _give it all away_—

I spun around.

Our eyes met—brown on brown on brown, pupils dilated, flashing, heated, can't look away, can never look away, _never never never_—

And then I was kissing him, my tongue in his mouth, my hands on his chest, and he was grappling with the zipper on my skirt, his fingers clumsy, unpracticed, and then it was on the ground and I was standing in front of him and he pulled back, with a slow seductive impossibly fucking perfect smirk flitting across his face—

My knickers were white.

"I knew it," he mumbled. "I knew that they'd be white."

Before I could reply, he'd torn them off and dropped to his knees, his hands on my hips, his gaze trained on the dripping pink flesh between my thighs—

"Bloody fucking _hell_," he whispered reverently. "You're gorgeous."

And then I almost collapsed.

Because he was staring at me—at _that_ part of me—and he looked curious and fascinated and _hungry_, almost feral, like he couldn't get enough, like he wanted seconds and thirds and maybe even fourths—and then he licked his lips and I realized what he intended to do and the anticipation was too much, just way too fucking much, and the sight of him leaning forward, with saliva slick and shiny on his tongue—it was the most erotic thing I'd ever fucking seen and _God_, I could have come right then, right there, just from the knowledge of what he was about to do to me, _for_ me—

The first lick was tentative.

The second was firmer, less hesitant, and elicited a barely audible moan from the back of my throat. The sensation of his mouth on my cunt—God, but I couldn't even fucking _think _that word without blushing—was strange. The tip of his tongue was velvety and moist as it circled my clit with varying degrees of pressure—hard, soft, hard, soft—but then he shoved a finger inside of me and wrapped his lips around my clit and he might have even _bit down_, I couldn't tell, I couldn't think, no, no thinking, I couldn't do that—and there, there it was, that remarkable static charge barreling through my body, sharp and startling and fucking _electric_—

He twisted his finger, curling it up.

I gasped.

_Oh, my fucking God._

"Taste so fucking good, Hermione," he murmured, pulling back slightly. His lips were swollen and glistening and wet. I thought, vaguely, that I should be embarrassed. I wasn't. "So fucking _good_."

He dove back in.

I closed my eyes.

And my mind went blank.

He'd replaced his finger with his tongue, thrusting in and out, and his hands moved down to grip my thighs as I began to roll my hips against his face. This wasn't like that night in the entrance hall. No. My body was preparing itself for something, something bigger and much more powerful—I could feel it, coiling like a snake in the pit of my stomach, wound tighter and tighter, waiting to pounce, waiting to be released—it was like magic, unexpected and ethereal, and in that maddening, unbelievably long half-second before my world completely fucking shattered—

I felt connected to him—to myself—in a way that didn't make sense.

There was a drop of lukewarm sweat sliding down the side of my neck. His fingernails were digging into my flesh, leaving behind tiny, crescent-shaped marks. The collar of my shirt was starched and crisp and stiff as it rubbed against my jaw. His hair was thick and surprisingly coarse against the pads of my fingers. My heartbeat was strong and loud and erratic, a lingering, pulsing echo between my ears. I was sure he could hear it. I was sure he could feel it.

It wasn't enough, though. I wanted to see him. I wanted him to watch my face and see exactly what it was that he'd done to me—I wanted him to fucking _know_, undeniably, irrevocably, that this wasn't an accident, that this wasn't a byproduct of fear and uncertainty and adrenaline—this was on purpose, this was intentional, this was _different_.

I opened my eyes.

I glanced down.

His gaze snapped up to mine, like he'd been waiting for it, waiting for _me_—

He deliberately flicked his tongue over my clit.

And then my thoughts started to come in broken, blissful fragments—_there, yes, that spot_—spine tingling—rush rush rush—_fuck_—teeth and tongue and _harder_—_there, there, so close_—warm, I'm warm, too warm—_close_—I can't—bright white swirls of lightning—_yes_—keep going—_yes_—harder—so fucking warm—faster—harder—_yes, so close_—my muscles were disintegrating—faster—_close_—can't stand up—_fuck_—falling falling falling—_fuck_—I can't—I couldn't—_yes_—faster faster faster _faster_—

_Yes_.

I crashed.

It was over.

I was done.

And neither of us had so much as blinked.

OOO


	12. XI

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Yes, the last chapter was a bit short, haha. I wanted a break from the more plot-heavy updates—I felt like Tom and Hermione's relationship was maybe getting lost in the fray, and even though it probably wasn't necessary to give them their own chapter, I wanted to. Besides—the plot thickens even further in the next two or three chapters, so for those of you who were somewhat disappointed by the lack of progress last time, I promise that you have a lot to look forward to, haha.

I'm glad so many of you enjoyed my version of smut at the end of chapter ten, though. I've said it before, but I really want to reiterate that sex is going to play a huge role in the rest of this story. Several of you have commented on how comparatively passive Hermione seems during the more intimate scenes, and while I'm certainly not going to argue with that—because it's true—I do want to say that I don't really think her character would ever behave any other way. She's uptight and completely inhibited. However—everyone cracks eventually, right?

As for how long this story is going to be, I would guess that I'm a little more than a third of the way done right now. My outline calls for thirty chapters, but I might end up condensing or expanding as needed. We'll see. Anyway. Enjoy!

OOO

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

I tried to tell myself that it didn't mean anything.

That it didn't mean anything when he slowly stood up and ran his thumb down the side of my jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. That it didn't mean anything when he helped me zip up my skirt and his hands lingered on my hips, as if he didn't want to let go. That it didn't mean anything when he wrapped his arms around my waist and fucking _held me_—for one, two, three seconds too long.

It meant nothing.

And it meant nothing when he sat on the couch and pulled me onto his lap, nuzzling my neck, his breath warm and comforting and silky against my skin. It meant nothing when I leaned back, my body melding with his, and placed my head on his shoulder. It meant nothing—_absolutely fucking nothing_—when I shifted in my seat and turned around to capture his lips in a kiss. It meant nothing that I could taste myself on his tongue. It meant nothing that when he finally pulled back, he was smiling.

And, _God_, that fucking smile—it didn't mean anything. I was sure of it.

Because I still recalled with startling clarity the night I had first met him. How he'd smiled politely, almost disinterestedly, and I'd thought the expression was all wrong for his face. I'd thought that it didn't fit.

_This_ smile, though—it was different. So fucking different. It was crooked, just the tiniest bit uneven—his lips were mostly closed, with only the barest sliver of perfectly straight white teeth visible—but there was a softness to it, to the slight upward tilt at the corner of his mouth, that separated the imperfections, made them less obvious—and all I could focus on was the end result, the realization that this was anything but wrong, that this was what I _always_ wanted him to look like—

_It didn't mean anything. None of it meant anything_.

"Have you done that before?" I asked shyly. The fire crackled lazily behind us.

"You gave me my first kiss three weeks ago," he pointed out, combing an idle hand through my hair. "Of course I've never done that before. Why?"

I blushed.

"Well—I mean—you were quite good at it, weren't you?"

He shrugged.

"Boys talk," he explained succinctly. "Malfoy especially."

I nestled myself deeper into his arms, draping my legs over his knees.

_It didn't mean anything_.

"So…Malfoy taught you everything you know?" I teased.

He snorted.

"There's something to be said for practical experience, I suppose."

I grinned.

"And now that _you _have practical experience…" I trailed off. "Was it everything you thought it would be?"

He laced his fingers through mine, rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand.

_It meant nothing_.

"It wasn't anything like what I thought it would be, actually."

"Oh?"

"I used to think—" he broke off, chuckling. "I used to always get disgusted when Malfoy talked about it. About what—what I just did, I mean. It just sounded so…messy. I couldn't imagine ever willingly engaging in such an act."

I felt a pang of—_something_ in the pit of my stomach.

_It didn't mean anything_.

"And now that you have?" I asked bravely.

He pulled me closer.

_Nothing. It meant nothing._

"Well it certainly _was _messy," he replied wryly. "But you tasted…"

I gulped. He rested his chin on the top of my head. I listened to him inhale, exhale, clean and slow and effortless.

"Yes?"

He cleared his throat.

"Exquisite," he said simply. "You tasted exquisite. Better than I could have ever even…well."

I relaxed into his embrace. He was warm. He was safe. He liked the way I tasted.

_It didn't mean anything_.

"I'm not sure if that's the kind of compliment that requires a response," I giggled.

He paused.

"Can I ask you something?"

I licked my lips. His voice had changed—it was rough, hesitant—perhaps even a bit uncertain. It made me nervous.

"Is it about the future?" I tried to joke.

"Partly, yes."

I stiffened. His arms tightened around me.

_It meant nothing._

"You know that I can't—" I said heatedly.

"Did you know Lestrange in the—where you came from?" he interrupted.

I froze.

"What?" I whispered.

"Lestrange. I noticed the first night you met him that you seem unusually uncomfortable in his presence. Did you know him?" he clarified.

My mouth felt dry.

"Not exactly."

He stroked the inside of my wrist with his fingertips.

_It didn't mean anything._

"What does that mean…exactly?"

A slow-burning ache began to form in my chest. I realized that I wasn't breathing. I coughed.

"I knew some members of his family," I said carefully.

He tucked a strand of hair back behind my ear.

_Nothing. None of it meant anything._

"And? Did they do something to you?"

I started to shake my head.

But then I stopped.

Would telling him really do any damage? I obviously couldn't go into detail—provide any real specifics—but surely showing him what I'd been through…surely that wouldn't be too terribly irresponsible? He already knew that I was a muggle-born. He knew that I was a Gryffindor. He knew that I was from the bloody future, for God's sake. And this—what he was asking—what he wanted to know—it wouldn't affect the timeline. It was personal. It was about me. It was, out of all of my secrets, perhaps the only one that was really mine to tell.

But did he deserve to know? After all, he had been, at least inadvertently, the cause of it. Of what happened. Of what went wrong. He might not have been the one to hold the knife, but—

_No._

Not him.

It hadn't been him. Tom Riddle was dead and gone when Bellatrix Lestrange had carved that word—that hateful fucking word—into my skin. Tom Riddle had had nothing to do with it. He hadn't been there. Tom Riddle no longer existed in my world. At some point in the fifty-year interim, he had made the permanent transition into Lord Voldemort. He wasn't Tom Riddle. My scar—that hateful fucking word—had nothing to do with him.

_It didn't mean anything_.

I reached for the buttons on the cuff of my Oxford. My hands were shaking.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm just going to show you something," I replied, wincing at the barely discernible tremor in my voice.

I folded back my sleeve, rolling it up, exposing the waxy pink outline of the scar—

_Mudblood_.

It had been carved crudely, without the aid of magic. It was large, spanning the space between the interior of my wrist and the base of my elbow. It was ugly. The configuration of the letters was irregular, almost childlike, and some lines were thicker than others. I lifted my arm, turning it so that the scar caught the flickering light from the fire. It looked shiny. It had healed angrily, unpleasantly, the skin stretched taut over the incisions.

_It didn't mean anything._

It took several minutes for him to react. The only outward, obvious sign of his distress was the way his arms locked around my waist like a vice, almost of their own volition. But when he did finally speak, it was harsh, guttural, violent—

"_Fuck_."

I almost smiled.

"It was quite painful," I said, my tone uncharacteristically distant. "She—I mean, the person who did it—used a special knife that made healing it particularly difficult. They wanted to make sure I had a reminder, I think. As if—as if I could possibly ever forget."

He swallowed. I felt the motion against the back of my head.

"A—a Lestrange did this to you?" he asked, his fingers hovering over my arm. He seemed unwilling to touch the scar.

"To be fair," I answered, "it was a Lestrange by marriage. But the name—I don't know. It resonates."

He nodded jerkily, his jaw scraping against my hair. I was suddenly anxious to see his face—his expression. It was important. I didn't dwell on why. I just turned around.

_It didn't mean anything._

His eyes were closed—screwed shut, his lids creased, his lashes fluttering from the pressure. A faint red flush stained his cheeks. His lips were compressed in a thin, flat line. His nostrils were flared. He looked vicious. I couldn't help but shiver.

"And Edmond let this happen?" he ground out, still not opening his eyes. I wondered what I would see if he did.

"Edmond wasn't there. I'm not even sure if he's even still—" I broke off awkwardly.

A muscle in his neck twitched.

"A Lestrange did this to you," he repeated dully.

I faltered.

"Look at me," I pleaded.

His eyes remained resolutely closed.

_It meant nothing._

"Were you—are you—how did it happen?"

I ran my tongue along the slightly uneven ridge of my teeth.

"Tom," I murmured. "_Look_ at me."

He took a deep, shuddering breath—and still, still he didn't open his eyes.

"Just tell me. Tell me how it happened. I want to know."

I looped my arms around his neck and leaned into him, pressing my chest against his and savoring the solid, steady warmth of his body.

_It didn't mean anything._

"I was—ah—captured."

"Captured?"

I chewed my bottom lip.

"Yes."

He wrinkled his nose.

"I don't understand. Do they hunt muggle-borns in the future?" he asked seriously.

I glanced at my scarred forearm.

"Not normally, no," I hedged.

"Then why would you have been captured by anyone? Are you some kind of fugitive?"

"You know I can't tell you," I reminded him softly.

His eyes snapped open—

And I couldn't help but gasp.

Because while his gaze was always almost preternaturally intense—this was different. This was _more_. This was rage, raw and blinding. This was dark. This was desperate. This was proof that he could kill—proof that he _would _kill. And I knew, intellectually, that I should have been repulsed. I should have been horrified. I should have wanted to back off, run away; I should have wanted to escape.

Instead, though, all I could do was remember the day I was tortured. I remembered screams—my screams, surely, but there had been other screams, deeper screams—_Ron and Harry_.

I waited for the sharp pinch in my gut that usually accompanied thoughts of them. It didn't come. I wondered if I was finally numb.

_It didn't mean anything._

I remembered the way Ron had begged her to let me go—to take him, let me go, to make it stop, just fucking make it stop—and the way Harry had charged into the drawing room, guilt and shame warring with the relief he clearly felt at finding me alive—I remembered the aftermath, my recovery, and how much time I'd spent—how much time I'd fucking _wasted_—reassuring them that I was okay, that everything would be okay—

Yet their eyes had never looked like Tom Riddle's when they thought about what Bellatrix Lestrange had done to me. They had never looked murderous. They had never looked dangerous. They had never looked like there was nothing in the entire world more important to them than fucking _decimating _whoever it was who had dared to hurt me.

_It meant nothing._

"_Hermione_," he said hoarsely. I decided that I liked the way he said my name. He made it sound lyrical—he made it sound pretty. As if he was caressing the syllables with his tongue. "You have to tell me. Tell me how it happened. I have to know."

My throat felt sore.

_It didn't mean anything._

"Why do you care so much?" I demanded.

And then, an instant later—

_Regret_.

It was immediate and sharp and piercing. I regretted asking the question. I regretted wanting an answer. Because he'd already made it clear what I was to him. I was a trophy. I was a possession. He obviously found me physically appealing, but that wasn't what I wanted to hear. That wasn't what I wanted from him.

And—_fucking hell_, but that realization was enough to expel the air from my lungs so fast I could barely keep up with it—

"I don't know," he admitted.

"What?"

"I don't know," he said again. "I don't know why I care so much. Does it matter?"

I didn't respond. I couldn't respond. Silence fell—it wasn't comfortable. His knee was digging rather painfully into my backside. A clock in the far corner of the room was ticking loudly. How late was it? Well past curfew. Melania was almost certainly already asleep.

_Nothing. It meant nothing._

"The man who attacked you," he said abruptly. "The squib. He was hired by a Malfoy."

My jaw went slack. My brain tried to process the new information. His hands slid to my waist. He left them there.

"I thought that you said you didn't know who hired him," I said dumbly. "You said…you said _he_ didn't know."

He sneered.

"I lied."

"Obviously."

"It was a Malfoy."

"Abraxas?"

He hesitated.

"Unlikely."

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

He quirked his lips.

"Does he strike you as the type to mastermind a plot on someone's life, sweetheart?"

I smirked bitterly.

"You're too arrogant, Tom. You should really stop underestimating people."

His jaw tightened.

_It didn't mean anything._

"You think I'm underestimating _Malfoy_?" he asked incredulously.

"Well, he certainly can't be _too _terribly stupid—don't you have him doing something important for you after graduation? In France?"

I was guessing; there had been enough thinly veiled references to whatever it was Abraxas had been ordered to do that I would have had to have been deaf to not hear them. I hadn't been able to glean much more than the basics from their conversations, but from the microscopic twitch in Tom's temple, it seemed quite likely that even knowing the basics was enough to make him nervous.

"How do you know about that?" he demanded, his voice low. "Did Malfoy tell you?"

"No," I replied slowly, "but I'm not an idiot, as much as you'd like to think I am. You've all let enough things slip that I'm more than capable of connecting the dots."

He studied me intently. And then he moved his hand over my cheek.

_Nothing. It meant nothing._

"Clever girl," he murmured. His thumb curled around my chin. He rubbed the skin there lightly. "So soft. So pretty. So _mine_."

He was kissing me before I could think to react—brushing our lips together tenderly, as if I might break—and I felt the muscles in my face start to quiver, the way they did when I was trying my hardest not to cry—he was just being so _gentle_, unexpectedly gentle, and I thought, wildly, that this kiss was less about marking his territory and more about—

No.

_No_.

He was not gentle. This didn't mean anything. None of it meant anything. I was _his_—that's all he was trying to tell me. That's all that mattered to him. His possessiveness was not _sweet_. It was disturbing. He was not capable of any of the things I had suddenly, without any warning at all, decided to crave. God, he'd threatened to fucking _kill me_ three weeks ago. Rather believably. He was not gentle. None of it meant anything. Unless—

I pulled back.

"Tom," I said breathlessly.

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember the…conversation we had a few weeks ago? About—about your family?"

He scowled.

"Yes."

_Now or never_, I thought timidly.

"Would you do it? Would you actually…hurt me?" I blurted out. I couldn't bring myself to say _kill_.

He was silent for several seconds.

_It meant nothing._

"How important is honesty to you, sweetheart?"

I toyed with the short black hair at the base of his skull.

"It's a simple question," I said. "Yes or no. Although—I suppose your reluctance to provide me with an answer is somewhat telling."

He didn't argue. My stomach lurched.

_It didn't mean anything._

"At the time I said that, my answer would have been…yes. Yes, I would have…hurt you."

He dragged a finger down the length of my spine. It felt intimate.

_It didn't mean anything._

"And now?"

He looked at me searchingly.

"Things are different."

"That isn't an answer."

Abruptly, he pushed me to the side and got to his feet. He appeared very tall from my position on the couch.

"I'm used to having you around," he said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"That still isn't an answer."

He stared down at me, clearly agitated.

_It meant nothing._

"You're going to be extraordinarily useful to me at some point," he continued, as if I hadn't even spoken.

I bit my lip.

"That's still not an answer," I said again, slowly standing up. My eyes were barely level with the top of his chest. I glanced up at him through my lashes.

_It didn't mean anything._

"If I lied to you and said _no_—no, I wouldn't hurt you—would that make you feel better, sweetheart?" he asked mockingly.

I went still.

"Is that your answer?"

He flinched.

_It meant nothing._

"Macmillan—the squib who attacked you—_didn't_ know who hired him," he said, purposefully avoiding my gaze. "He was wearing a ring. A Malfoy ring. I doubt he knew what it did or who it belonged to, but it was distinctive enough for me to recognize."

Dazed, I furrowed my brow. I remembered the ring.

"A ring…like the one Abraxas gave me?"

"Similar. Its purpose is different but its function is the same. I'm assuming it was supposed to activate at a certain time to take you…elsewhere."

"And you're—you're sure it was from the Malfoys?"

He sniffed irritably.

"Quite sure, sweetheart."

I grimaced.

"I don't suppose you happen to know what the Malfoys might want with me?"

His eyes flashed.

_It didn't mean anything._

"No. I don't. But I'll find out. And if Abraxas had anything at all to do with that fucking squib trying to hurt you, the Malfoys will very quickly find themselves without an heir."

I swallowed.

"I…see."

He appraised me thoughtfully, his expression guarded.

"You're never surprised when I say things like that," he observed.

I blinked rapidly.

"Why would I be?"

His mouth twisted.

"Seriously?"

I looked away.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop trying to get me to tell you things about the bloody future," I snapped. "I _get_ that you're rather accomplished at being a manipulative bastard, but kindly keep in mind that I'm not an utter imbecile the next time you want to have me on, thanks ever so."

His face twitched—and then he was laughing, really laughing, and the sound was rich and infectious and fucking _mesmerizing_—

_It didn't mean anything._

"You should get to bed," he suggested after a moment, reaching for my hand. "Come on. I'll take you."

He led me down the girls' hallway, our fingers entwined. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He looked strangely content—relaxed, even. I wasn't sure what to make of it. Hadn't we just argued? We came to a stop in front of my door.

"Well," I said quietly, leaning into the doorframe. "Good night, then."

He smiled and planted a soft, lingering kiss on my forehead.

_Nothing. It meant nothing._

"The answer to your question, by the way, is _no_," he whispered into my skin. "No, I wouldn't hurt you. Not now. Good night, sweetheart."

And then he was walking away and I was standing still and I could have sworn my heart had forgotten how to beat properly because there was no way—_no fucking way_—that what it was doing so furiously, so quickly, could possibly be considered _normal_—

I couldn't help it.

I was fucking melting.

_It didn't mean anything._

OOO

"Miss Granger! What a lovely surprise."

It was the next morning. A Monday. I'd woken up tired, my eyes practically glued shut—I'd wanted nothing more than to bury my face in my emerald green pillow and go back to sleep, but there was something else I needed to do. Something that I'd been putting off. Something important.

I had to go see Dumbledore.

I wasn't stupid, no matter how idiotically I'd been behaving since I'd arrived in 1944. I had heard all the warnings; the not-so-subtle implications that there was much more to Dumbledore than wisdom and kindness and selflessly brilliant political machinations. Part of me was unwilling—_unable_—to accept that his motivation to help me stemmed from something other than simple generosity. He was Harry's mentor. He was our beloved Headmaster. He believed in second chances and redemption and the healing power of love. He had saved us all, so many times, too many times—he was the _embodiment_ of trustworthy, wasn't he?

Except—

Hadn't I thought, on more than one occasion, that the way he used people, moving them around like they were nothing more than helpless, hapless chess pieces—hadn't I thought it horrible? Hadn't I questioned his judgment? Hadn't I questioned why he was so insistent on pinning the hopes of thousands—the entire fucking future of the wizarding world—on the too-skinny shoulders of a seventeen year-old boy?

He was not infallible. He was not perfect. And I knew that those types of absolutes didn't exist, anyway. Right and wrong, black and white—hardly anything ever coincided with one or the other. Tom Riddle was proof enough of that. But did that mean that I had been wrong in trusting Dumbledore?

When I had initially arrived in the past, my thoughts had been a confusing mash of fear and denial and uncertainty. I hadn't known what to do. I still didn't know what to do. And he had been familiar; comforting. He'd given me answers. He'd given me explanations. He'd given me a new identity and a past that sounded convincing and he'd done it all with a confident, compassionate smile—those two weeks before school had started were a blur, to be sure, but I remembered vividly how embarrassingly eager I had been to believe every single thing he'd told me.

But now—

Now, I was standing outside of his classroom, looking into his twinkling blue eyes, and wondering why the _fuck _it had taken me two whole months to fully understand the fact that _I was not safe here_.

"Good morning, Professor," I said briskly. "Are you busy?"

He stepped aside and motioned for me to follow him inside.

"I believe I have some time before breakfast," he replied, shutting the door behind us. "Is there something in particular you wished to discuss?"

I moved into the room, glancing around at the rows and rows of empty desks.

"Have you made any progress, sir? With…my problem?"

He settled himself in a chair behind his desk.

"A colleague in France is actually doing some experimenting with time turners," he informed me cheerfully. "He's made quite a bit of progress. Of course, he's still curiously unwilling to test his work on humans—there's some danger of third-degree burns, from what I understand—but it's only a matter of time, if you'll pardon the pun."

I nodded slowly.

"That sounds promising, sir. He's been successful in moving forward in time, then?"

"An hour at a time, yes."

I forced a smile and shuffled my feet.

"That's…wonderful."

He pursed his lips.

"Indeed. Tell me—how are you feeling, Miss Granger?"

My forehead creased in a frown.

"I'm…quite well, sir. Why do you ask?"

His eyes sparkled languidly.

"You'll have to forgive an old man for being remiss in his duties as your guardian," he replied calmly. "But I wanted to give you some time to recover from your ordeal before bringing it up with you."

I felt the familiar stirrings of acute irritation.

"Ordeal?"

He tapped his long, gnarled fingers together.

"Your attack, Miss Granger. Three weeks ago. Surely you haven't forgotten about it?"

I furrowed my brow.

"You know about that?"

He offered me a small, rather secretive smile.

"Few things happen at Hogwarts that I remain unaware of, Miss Granger," he explained with a casual wave of his hand.

My spine tingled. Why did that sound so much—_so very fucking much_—like a threat?

"I see."

He leaned forward in his chair.

"I do wonder, however, why you didn't immediately come to me," he went on.

I opened my mouth. No sound emerged.

"Well—" I stalled, thinking frantically.

"I must say," he interrupted, "I was rather _disappointed _to see that you seem to find young Mr. Riddle a more trustworthy source of comfort than myself. Especially after I did do my best to warn you that Gellert would more than likely make an attempt to…acquire you."

"You think that _Grindewald _was trying to kidnap me?"

He cocked his head to the side.

"Of course, Miss Granger. Who else would it be?" he asked innocently.

I narrowed my eyes.

"I'm sure I don't know," I drawled, picking at my fingernails. "_Sir_."

He sighed.

"How are you liking Slytherin, Miss Granger?" he asked, deftly changing the subject. "Horace has mentioned, more than once, how very well you've managed to fit in with the rest of the house. He is particularly pleased with your friendship with Mr. Riddle."

I leaned against a nearby desk and leisurely crossed my ankles.

"It's fine," I replied with a shrug. "Most people are surprisingly polite, actually."

"And Mr. Riddle?" he pressed.

"What about him?" I countered, an edge to my voice.

He clucked his tongue.

"Oh, I don't mean to offend," he said hastily, resting his hands on the edge of his desk. "I'm simply…concerned. Your initial impression of him was substantially less than favorable, after all. What changed, if I might be so bold?"

The rough wood surface of the desk was digging into the backs of my thighs. The lone window on the opposite side of the classroom was letting in sharp, bright white prisms of early-morning sunlight. Powdery clouds of chalk dust were floating inconspicuously in the still, stale air. I noticed all of these things—_fucking all of them_—while I considered his seemingly innocuous question.

_What had changed?_

Well—

_Everything_ had changed. So much had changed. Too much had changed. And I wanted to say something to him, something cutting and wry and pointed about how I could write him a list if he was really so fucking curious—a list of all the ways I'd had to change, all the ways I'd had to adapt—I'd fought in a bloody fucking war in my own time, for God's sake, but two months in 1944 had made me feel like nothing more than a naïve little girl in the midst of a very bad dream.

A fucking _nightmare_.

"It's like you said, Professor," I finally said, straightening my shoulders and meeting his probing, suspicious gaze. "Tom is very popular with the other students. Antagonizing him seemed like a rather silly thing to do."

His posture stayed relaxed, but his grip on the desk turned his knuckles white.

"Well, then," he said genially. "I'm glad you've taken my advice to heart, Miss Granger."

"Of course, sir," I replied. "But—if you'll excuse me—I think I should be getting to breakfast."

"Yes, yes," he said, immediately standing up and maneuvering out from behind his desk. "I also have a class to prepare for."

I opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

"Thank you for your time, Professor," I said politely. "You'll keep me updated on whatever progress your friend in France makes?"

He looked at me shrewdly.

"I will," he agreed with a tense nod in my direction. "Have a good morning, Miss Granger."

And then he closed the door with a loud, resounding click and left me alone in the coldly empty corridor. Puzzled by his abrupt dismissal, I made my way to the Great Hall with a pensive expression on my face.

"Hermione!"

_Tom Riddle._

I felt myself react—_smile_—before I could remind myself not to. I watched him approach me with a vague feeling of unease. He was holding a single white rose. It didn't have thorns.

_It didn't mean anything._

"Good morning," I greeted him, nervously adjusting the strap of my bag.

"Where have you been? I waited for you."

He reached out to take my satchel from me. I let him.

"I had to go see Professor Dumbledore. I haven't really spoken with him since…" I didn't finish.

He smirked and slung an arm around my waist. My head fell to the side, landing on his shoulder, as he walked me into the Great Hall. He was still holding the rose. Its petals tickled the underside of my jaw.

"Did he say anything interesting?"

I rubbed my cheek against his sweater. It felt soft.

_Nothing. It meant nothing. Less than nothing, even._

"He thinks Grindewald was behind the attack," I said quietly.

He guided me into my seat and placed the rose on the table in between us.

_It didn't mean anything._

"You told him about it?" he asked, his tone scrupulously even. He began to pour me a glass of orange juice.

"He already knew."

He snorted.

"Of course he did," he muttered.

I methodically buttered a thick piece of toast.

"He said he knows everything that happens at Hogwarts," I remarked casually.

He rested a heavy hand on the top of my leg.

_It meant nothing._

"And do you believe him, sweetheart?"

I stared down at my lap, transfixed by the sight of his large, graceful hand on my thigh—his fingernails were clean and neatly trimmed, nearly translucent, with a faint pink stain in the center of each. His thumb was methodically stroking the wool of my skirt.

_It didn't mean anything._

"No," I replied firmly. "No, I don't believe him. No one knows _everything_."

He squeezed my thigh. I took a bite of my toast. The white rose was half-covered by each of our breakfast plates.

_It meant nothing._

OOO


	13. XII

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: This chapter ended up being crazy long. It got out of control. Do you guys prefer super-long chapters or should I have broken this one up into two? Tom's journal entry alone was something like 1,700 words.

But I'm so pleased we're all in agreement—Tom was fucking _adorable _in the last chapter, I know. But his unfailing sweetness to Hermione is causing him a fair bit of inner turmoil. _So much angst, you guys. _

I can't really comment on Dumbledore and whether or not he's actually on Hermione's side—and for those of you who ask questions about the plot and don't get answers from me…it's usually because any answer I might be able to provide comes with a serious spoiler alert, and I'm intensely protective of this particular narrative. I normally never write things with semi-elaborate plots (even my novel reads kind of like an extra-long dream sequence, haha) and I'm honestly so _proud _of how this is turning out that I don't want to ruin it by letting things slip. That doesn't mean I don't love you guys, though. Because I do. (And for what it's worth—the last chapter was my absolute favorite chapter so far, too. By a lot. I wrote the entire thing in less than twelve hours. Which, for me, is _insane_. I can sometimes spend days on a single sentence. I am not an efficient writer.)

Anyway. Thank you for the reviews! I'm still sometimes totally overwhelmed by how supportive you all are being. It's really very heartwarming. (Shut up. I'm allowed to be sentimental.) Enjoy!

xoxo Andrea

OOO

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

_October 17, 1944_

_ I do not—_

_ I cannot—_

_ I don't—_

_**I do not know what I am doing.**_

_ I feel as if I am perilously close to losing any semblance of control—as if everything I have worked and plotted and planned for has become…unimportant. It is disconcerting._

_And it is __**her **__fault._

_In the beginning, I had reasons—lots of reasons, sensible reasons—for being interested in her. I'm sure of it. She is from the fucking __**future**__; that alone is reason enough to keep her safe. To keep her close. _

_But she—_

_I am not stupid. I know that I am hopelessly besotted. I am not going to allow myself to pretend all is well and nothing has changed when—_

_Well._

_Fucking everything has changed, hasn't it?_

_ All of it. All of it has changed. I can no longer spend fifteen fucking minutes in her company without wanting—needing?—to touch her. It is a compulsion that is as puzzling as it is troublesome. I overheard Malfoy telling Nott that it was __**right pathetic**__ how I was allowing her to lead me around by my cock. Which is—_

_ Laughable, really. Not to mention inaccurate._

_Whatever intimacies I've shared with her have not resulted in anything even remotely resembling physical gratification—not for me, at least. Not that I cared at the time. Not that I was even __**bothered **__at the time._

_Which is—_

_Fucking hell, I __**licked **__her. I stuck my fucking tongue in her fucking cunt and fucking—and I fucking liked it. __**I bloody well liked it**__. She tasted salty and sweet and so incredibly good that I couldn't bring myself to brush my teeth before I went to bed—I so very badly wanted to remember the flavor—__**her**__ flavor—exactly, just in case she never let me do it again. _

_ And, God, do I want to do it again._

_ And again._

_ And again._

_ I've found that there's a peculiar sort of…__**thrill**__ involved in making her come. She's normally so tense. Reserved. Careful. Watching her body unravel is intoxicating—her eyes go dark, like burnt caramel, and her muscles fucking __**melt**__, there's not another word for it—she is beautiful when she comes and before she comes and after she comes—I could spend hours—days—months—fucking __**years**__ making sure she—_

_ No._

_**Fuck.**_

___No._

_ I sound like—_

_ I sound bloody fucking ridiculous. I sound like Malfoy sounded after he got that Ravenclaw to suck his cock on the train home after fifth year—when he claimed she did it so well he was going to marry her, half-blood or not._

_ But Hermione would be better than that._

_ Fuck, would she be better than that. She'd be perfect. Innocent. She'd start with a lick—a tiny one, hesitant and curious, but then she'd realize she quite likes the taste of me and she'd start to use her mouth—she'd take just the tip at first, because she's so small and I'm so large and she wouldn't be sure how much of my cock could even __**fit**__—and then she'd look up at me, wondering if she was doing it right, and I'd say something—fuck, I'd say something encouraging, something to put her more at ease—and then she'd __**suck**__, lightly, and I'd probably make some kind of helpless, desperate moaning sound because it felt so __**fucking**__ good—and then she'd get more confident, because she can tell that I like what she's doing, and she'd open her mouth wider and my hips would jerk forward and my cock would hit the back of her throat and she'd choke a little bit but it would be so fucking __**tight **__that I wouldn't be able to stop myself from coming—and she'd swallow it, every last drop, and then I'd apologize, because she's not that kind of girl, she's better than that, and then I'd pull her into bed with me and put my arms around her and—_

_ No._

_**Fuck**__._

_ This is—_

_ I can't even wank properly anymore. This girl is fucking __**emasculating **__me and I'm just—I'm __**letting **__her. _

_ Not that she's aware of it. She still doesn't trust me. She still measures everything I say, weighs every word that comes out of my mouth. She's still impressively guarded when she looks at me—like she's waiting for me to harm her in some unforgivably violent way. She has no idea that I'm about half-convinced I'm completely incapable of hurting her. She has no idea that she's inspired the most absurdly uncomfortable sense of…ownership—I've always been fiercely protective of my possessions, but my possessions have never before been human._

_ Perhaps if I fuck her, this will all go away. Perhaps Malfoy has the right of it. Perhaps—_

_ She isn't safe here. I knew that a month ago, of course, but now that Dumbledore seems to be catching on to the fact that she's rather less than pleased with him, I confess that I'm concerned. He's aware of her circumstances—obviously—and I've long since deduced that claiming her as his niece was nothing more than a ploy to draw attention to her existence. I just can't fathom __**why**__. What does he get out of this? Why go through the trouble of hiding her in plain sight—only to leave her vulnerable and ignorant and susceptible to the poorly-planned whims of potential kidnappers? He's the scion of the Light, for God's sake—the idea of sacrificing an innocent young girl should nauseate him. It doesn't make any sense. _

_ But she isn't any safer in her own time. She hasn't told me why, but—_

_ It has something to do with her being a muggle-born. A mudblood._

_**Mudblood**__._

_ Bloody fucking hell._

___It isn't a word that I've ever given much consideration. I thought it preposterous, actually, the first time I heard Lestrange use it. And, __**oh**__, how he uses it—casually, without thinking, again and again and again, as if by simple repetition he can make it more than just a pitifully pointless blood slur. It's an ugly word, certainly—crass and somehow implicitly offensive—but it isn't one that has ever __**bothered **__me. Not until Sunday. Not until I saw—_

_**Fucking hell.**_

_ Her arm—_

_ It hurt to look at. It hurt to see her skin—lovely skin, pale and warm and soft—fucking __**ruined**__ like that. I mean—someone fucking __**carved **__that word into her body. Someone took a fucking knife and butchered her fucking arm—the physical agony was likely inconceivable, but surprisingly, that's the __**least**__ disturbing aspect of the entire fucking thing._

_ No._

_ It's what it __**means **__that left such a sour taste in the back of my throat I was terrified I would retch. Someone—a fucking __**Lestrange**__—meant to __**scar **__her. Literally. Figuratively. Emotionally. Someone—a fucking __**Lestrange**__—used a cursed blade to make sure she would always know—always remember—precisely what she was to them. _

_ I am not a stranger to cruelty. My Knights can attest to my utter lack of a conscience. (Malfoy especially. Fucking idiot.) Inflicting pain—it serves a purpose. I understand that better than most. But when that purpose is so—_

_ I do not—_

_**Degrading**__. _

_She should never be made to feel like that. She is as much a victim of the circumstances of her birth as I am—and God knows I couldn't help what a travesty __**that**__ was. And she is…brave. I've never had any inclination to feel appreciative for virtues that are so summarily moralistic as to be annoying—but when confronted with that awful scar—that awful word—I was suddenly grateful that she was a Gryffindor in her old life. Because—surely it takes __**courage**__—that grotesquely overrated trait I've never felt more than a passing sort of disdain for—to face what she did and come out of it whole? _

_And the thought of her being anything less than whole leaves me…_

_Fucking furious._

_Blood purity is another one of those bizarre, outdated Pureblood beliefs that quite baffled me when I initially entered the wizarding world. Much like tracking device engagement rings and a propensity to inbreed—it makes little outward sense. Luckily, I was able to recognize what a sore spot the issue is for most of my peers; they are all so blinded by their own prejudice that it was relatively easy to get them to think of me as one of them. To get them to follow me. To take advantage of their single-minded stupidity and pledge their friendship, fortunes, and futures—all to a cause that I understand, intellectually, but have no more interest in than I do becoming Minister of Magic. Their priority—blood purity—is so misguided as to be considered a joke. It won't matter, of course, when I've accomplished what I've set out to. But part of me, the part that inwardly flinches whenever I remember that I am, in fact, only a half-blood orphan—part of me relishes the idea that one day soon they'll have to accept that I manipulated them all so masterfully—a pack of allegedly superior Slytherins, no less—that by the time it occurred to them how dreadfully they were being used…_

_It was too late._

_Much too fucking late._

_And then—_

_**God.**_

_It was a fucking __**Lestrange.**__ A fucking __**Lestrange **__hurt her. She was quick to assure me that Edmond had had nothing to do with it. She even implied that she didn't know if he was even alive in her time. But all that means to me is that it was more than likely Edmond's fucking __**spawn**__ who did it—who hurt her. _

_No—a Lestrange by marriage, she said. A Pureblood. And a woman, evidently. I wonder if Hermione would tell me—_

_She wouldn't. She wouldn't risk the bloody timeline. (I desperately need a counter-argument for that.)_

_No._

_She wouldn't tell me._

_Which means that Edmond is the closest thing I have to a guilty party._

_I'll have to find a knife._

_-TMR_

OOO

_October 18, 1944_

The next day, I was partnered with Abraxas in Potions, much to Tom's very vocal dismay. Abraxas had merely smirked and joined me at my table, draping a nonchalant arm across the back of my chair as Tom looked on, his expression irate.

"So. You and Tom," Abraxas remarked casually. "How the fuck did that happen, darling?"

I looked up from the list of ingredients I was checking.

"We have a lot in common," I replied uneasily.

His jaw tightened.

"Like what?" he ground out.

I swallowed nervously and picked up a vial of glittering black beetle eyes. I had never seen Abraxas behave so…_aggressively_. Everything from his posture—tense, imposing, and unimaginably solid—to his eyes—cold, hard, grey, and beautiful—seemed to me a warning to tread carefully. He was bitter. He was angry. I knew why.

"Well," I said slowly, stalling. "We're both orphans."

He reached for a stirring rod.

"How fucking _adorable_."

I felt an unexpected pang of sadness. Abraxas had been distant, of course, for almost a month—ever since he'd seen me walk into the Great Hall hand-in-hand with Tom and figured out what that meant. He had gaped at us—_like a fucking fish_, Tom had later observed unkindly—before gulping down his orange juice and shooting a glare of such obvious, vehement violence in Tom's direction that I hadn't been able to look away. And now, three weeks later, Abraxas was practically a stranger again. There were no more sweetly exaggerated terms of endearment; there was no more innocent flirting. He no longer waited for me in the common room. He no longer offered me a playful, lopsided grin whenever Edmond made a particularly derogatory remark about the Gryffindor quidditch team.

I often wondered if what I was feeling when I thought about him was what it felt like to miss someone who was, for all intents and purposes, still physically _there_—a vague sort of regret that was tinged liberally with guilt. It wasn't overwhelming—no, not that—but it was still somehow _devastating_. I didn't know how to deal with it. I didn't know how to make it better.

Because the thing was—

Harry and Ron were fucking _gone_. I was not going to get them back. Missing them was bittersweet; a plethora of fond, blurry memories filled with laughter and adventure and a deliciously warm sense of _right_. I rarely thought about how everything had ended—how _they _had ended. I couldn't. I wouldn't. They were gone. They were not coming back. And missing them—as terrible as it was—was almost _easier_ because of that. I could miss them and remember them and know that there was nothing I could do to get them back.

Abraxas, though—

Abraxas had been my friend—the first one I'd ever had outside of Harry and Ron. I had trusted him, in my own way. He had told me jokes and listened to me talk and given me the tiniest sliver of hope that maybe—fucking _eventually_—I wouldn't feel so alone in the past. But not anymore. Not now. No—_now,_ he only bothered to speak to me when he knew that Tom was watching. He'd pass me a plate of toast at breakfast and make sure that our fingers brushed. He'd hold open a door for me, only to slam it in Tom's face when he tried to follow. He was derisive. He was irritating. He was petulant.

But he was not confrontational. Not really. Which made his current behavior all the more alarming.

"Abraxas," I said softly, picking up a short, stubby ginger root. My hands were steady. I was oddly pleased by that. "I wish you wouldn't act like this. I…I _miss_ you."

His nostrils flared.

"It's just—I thought we had an understanding," he responded, his voice low. He used his wand to light a small fire under our cauldron. "I thought we—damn it, Hermione, you fucking _know _what I thought."

My eyes widened.

"That's hardly _my_ fault," I retorted, sliding a thick wooden cutting board in front of me. "I was honest with you. I told you—I told you that I didn't see you like that. You just didn't want to listen."

He scoffed.

"You kept the fucking ring," he snarled, rummaging in his bag for a small silver knife. My breath caught. "What else was I supposed to think?"

My chair scraped against the floor as I pushed it back.

"You _begged me _to keep the ring, in case you've forgotten," I snapped, snatching the knife from his grasp.

"Oh, no—I _remember_, kitten," he shot back. I winced. _Kitten_. "I _remember_ you trying to sell me some pathetic fucking story about your dead best friend—as if fucking telling me that would make me fucking _feel better_."

I began to slice the ginger root into thin slivers. I didn't respond. I couldn't respond. He was getting dangerously close to saying something he couldn't take back. Something I wouldn't let him take back. We worked in silence for several more minutes. Until—

"Have you fucked him yet?" he asked abruptly.

My knife slipped on the cutting board, nicking my finger. It stung.

"_Excuse _me?" I demanded in a heated whisper. I glanced around the classroom. Tom was the only one watching us.

Abraxas shrugged.

"It's a valid question. It's been—what—almost a month?"

I threw down my knife. It clattered loudly.

"Shut _up_, Abraxas."

He yanked the cutting board closer. The tiny droplets of blood that had leaked from my fingertip smeared across the surface of the table. We both ignored the stains.

"That's a _no_," he sneered, sloppily tossing the decimated ginger root into our cauldron. "Have you at least bothered to suck his cock? Riddle's a good-looking bloke, you know, even if it _has_ taken him six fucking years to take advantage of it. He's not going to stick around and watch you play the virgin forever."

I gritted my teeth.

"You're disgusting," I spat, blindly grabbing my wand and summoning two empty glass vials.

He crossed his arms over his chest, the muscles in his shoulders bunched up and straining against the snow-white cotton of his shirt. I was struck, dimly, by how very different his body was from Tom's.

"Haven't done that either?" he snorted. "God, Granger, what are all the fucking flowers for, then?"

I began to ladle our finished potion into a vial.

"You're an ass," I said flatly.

He viciously scribbled our names on a small brown label.

"I think I lucked out when you chose him over me," he went on, as if I hadn't even spoken. "I doubt you would have ever been worth the fucking wait."

I felt tears—traitorous, salty, _stupid_ fucking tears—prick the back of my eyelids.

"Why are you being like this, Abraxas?" I whispered.

He paused.

"Being like what?" he asked hoarsely.

"So _mean_," I managed to answer. "You're being mean and spiteful and I don't—just—_why_? I understand if you don't want to be my—my friend any longer. I do. I understand. You can't help—I understand. But that's no excuse for—"

"No excuse for _what_, sweetheart?" a new voice interrupted.

_Tom._

I twisted in my seat to glance at him, biting my lower lip. His eyes were on my face, searching and restless and glimmering with the faintest trace of concern. He was standing behind my chair, his hands resting on my shoulders, his grip tight even as his thumbs rubbed soothing circles against the back of my neck. I shivered at the contact.

"Nothing, Tom," I replied with a grimace. "We were just…having a bit of a petty argument. About our potion. Nothing important."

Tom's gaze flicked towards Abraxas.

"Alright, Malfoy?"

Abraxas scowled.

"Alright, Riddle."

Tom studied him for a long, drawn-out moment. He didn't appear to be particularly upset, but it was always difficult to accurately gauge his emotions—I'd compared him to a statue before; beautiful, carved from cold, unfeeling marble—and I hadn't really been wrong.

"Looks like you're done, then," Tom said, reaching around me to pick up my notes and pack them neatly in my bag. "Come on, sweetheart. It stopped raining last night. We can take a walk around the lake before lunch."

I didn't look at Abraxas as I stood up and took Tom's hand.

"We'll talk later, Malfoy," Tom murmured, his dark eyes glinting in the dim dungeon candlelight. Even I could hear the lurking promise of a threat in his voice.

Abraxas stared at our hands—fingers entwined easily, so easily, like there was nowhere else they would ever fit any better—and pressed his lips together.

"Hey, Tom?" he asked suddenly, loudly, forcefully. "While I've got you, mate—could you clear something up for me?"

Tom adopted an expression of mild disinterest.

"I suppose that would depend on what it is, exactly, that needs clearing up."

Abraxas threw me one of his trademark grins—sloppy and lopsided and almost achingly engaging—but there was something wrong with it, wrong with _him_, and instead of making me feel nostalgic and warm and possibly even _happy_, all it did was make me wish that Tom had whisked me out of this dingy little classroom before Abraxas had decided to say anything else.

"Oh, well, the lads and I—Lestrange and Nott and Avery and—well, you know—we have a bit of a bet going on," he explained, chuckling.

Tom didn't smile.

"Gambling is against school rules, Malfoy," he pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah," Abraxas replied with a nonchalant wave of his arm. "But this bet's actually about you, and it's all just for fun, anyway—loser's got to wear a fucking Gryffindor tie for a week—and I tried to get Granger to play along and tell me what I wanted to know, but she got a but prickly about the whole thing, so…"

My stomach lurched.

_No_.

He wasn't—he couldn't be—

"What does Hermione have to do with it?" Tom asked icily.

Bile hit the back of my tongue.

"We bet on how long it would take you to fuck her, of course," Abraxas drawled, arching a single pale-blonde brow. "I said it would be at least two months—our girl's a bit of a prude, isn't she?—but Lestrange seemed bizarrely fucking adamant that you'd bag her in a couple of weeks, and God _knows _we'd all like to see that fucker in some red and gold—"

Tom's fingers squeezed mine—just once—before he gently let me go.

"And what were Nott and Avery's bets?" Tom interjected.

Abraxas looked confused for a discomfiting half-second.

"Ah—Nott said a month and Avery said…" he trailed off with a smirk. "Avery said she'd never take her knickers off, not even for you."

Tom nodded slowly and seemed to consider what he'd just been told. But then his eyes went shuttered and his jaw went tense and he was taking a menacing, measured step towards Abraxas—

"You made a series of very grave errors today, Malfoy," Tom said conversationally. "The least of which was speculating on the state of _my_ girlfriend's knickers. Tell me—were her multiple rejections of you not enough of a deterrent? Do you need me to be more demonstrative in my affections? Perhaps a meaningful grope at breakfast every morning to really _cement _the understanding into your pitifully thick Pureblood skull that _she doesn't want you_?"

Abraxas' face pinched angrily.

"That has nothing—"

"Or maybe you need a lesson that will leave more of a…_lasting_ impression," Tom went on silkily. "Is that it?"

Abraxas flinched.

"Look, it's just a bloody bet, there's no need to—"

"On the contrary," Tom interrupted. "There's_ every_ need."

Abraxas didn't respond. The classroom was quiet.

"We'll talk later, Malfoy," Tom said again, turning back to me and clasping my hand in his. "Oh—and you have a week's worth of detention to serve with Professor Slughorn starting Saturday. For gambling on school grounds."

I let myself smile as we left.

OOO

The seventh year boys' dormitory smelled like sweat and bleach and—strangely enough—cinnamon.

I wrinkled my nose when Tom opened the door, his hands immediately coming back to grip my waist as he continued raining kisses down the length of my throat. He was breathing hard, his mouth hot against my skin, and I felt a now-familiar tingle pervade the lower half of my abdomen. It felt good. It felt right. It felt like it was supposed to.

"Tom," I panted, watching blearily as he kicked the door shut and yanked at the knot in his tie. "Your roommates—"

"No one will be stupid enough to bother us," he mumbled, latching his mouth onto my collar bone and reaching under my skirt to roughly pull me closer. His erection was hard and heavy against my thighs.

"But—"

"It's fine, sweetheart," he murmured, grinding his pelvis into mine with a languid roll of his hips. "Everyone's at dinner."

And then he did something particularly wonderful with his teeth and his tongue and _oh God yes _his fingers found their way to the zipper on the side of my skirt and it was in a heap on the floor before I could even stop to blink and he was wrestling with the buttons on his shirt and then it was finally fucking _off_, thrown to the side, and—

It was unfair, really.

He was tall and slim, the muscles in his torso long, lithe, and supple, not necessarily all that well-defined but still somehow _there_. His skin was pale—pristine—and there was a faint smattering of silky black hair dusting his chest. His shoulders were broad. His arms looked strong. He was not all that large—but he was graceful, slender, impossibly perfect, and _fucking hell _but I wanted him.

"Well," I remarked, my mouth curiously dry. "I'm not at all sure why you even bother with clothes."

He grinned and hooked an arm around my waist, lowering his head to kiss me. I ran my hands up his back, entranced by the feel of his skin rippling beneath my fingertips—his own hands were cupped around my backside, kneading, grabbing, pulling—and then he was picking me up, wordlessly urging me to wrap my legs around his waist, moaning when the front of my knickers—wet, sticky, _already_—came in contact with his erection.

"_Fuck_, you taste good," he whispered, stumbling towards his four-poster.

He gently dropped me onto the bed, leaving me eye-level with the bulge in his trousers. I nervously licked my lips. He glanced down. His expression turned feral.

"I've never—" I started to say.

"Do you want to?" he asked instantly.

I didn't feign ignorance.

"I don't want to do it wrong," I confessed.

His eyes darted to my mouth. He looked hungry.

"I could—I could, uh, give you…instructions. Or, you know, let you know how you're doing. If you'd like."

He wasn't wearing a belt. He never wore a fucking belt.

"Has anyone ever—"

"No," he said quickly. "No. But I—I know what feels good."

I nodded dumbly.

"Of course. Yeah."

His hands went to the fastenings of his trousers. He moved slowly. I felt an insistent pulse between my thighs.

"If you—you know—don't like it…you can just stop," he said, watching me carefully. "You don't have to—"

"I'll be fine," I replied. "I—I want to do this. I do."

And I _did_. I _did _want to do it—I wanted to _see him touch him taste him_—and I wanted to do for him what he'd done for me. I wanted him to feel like I had—invincible, incredible—and I wanted it to be because of _me_. Only me. Only ever me.

"Right. So—I'll just—" he floundered.

Something inside of me—deep, deep inside of me, so deep it barely even felt real—seemed to crumble in the face of his awkwardness and I couldn't help it, couldn't stop it—I knelt up on the bed and pulled his head down towards me and kissed him—hard, fast, eager—and slapped his hands out of the way as I slid the zipper on his trousers down, down, down—

He wasn't wearing any underwear.

He wasn't wearing any underwear and because of that his cock immediately sprung out from the placket in his pants and—

It was fascinating. Long and straight and slightly pink with a ruddy red tip—clear fluid was leaking from the head, and I had the sudden urge to _lick it off_—I wondered what it would taste like, what _he _would taste like—but he was staring down at me again, a dull flush creeping across his neck, up his jaw, over his cheeks, and it occurred to me that he was _embarrassed_.

"You don't wear underwear," I said stupidly.

His forehead creased in an anxious frown.

"I don't like the…restriction."

I rested on my heels and went back to studying his—well, his _cock_. I reached out and drew my index finger down its length. His whole body twitched. I then wrapped my hand around its base and lightly squeezed.

He gasped.

"Should I…" I trailed off tremulously, leaning forward.

"Just—ah—maybe just try licking the tip—" he stuttered.

I stuck my tongue out and swirled it around the head of his cock.

"_Fuck_, sweetheart, yes, like that, just like that," he breathed. "Now—just open your mouth—yeah, like that, _fuck_, _just _like that—and just—yes—_yes_, sweetheart_—_"

I had slowly—ever so slowly—relaxed my jaw and let several inches of his cock slide into my mouth. I closed my lips around him and flicked my tongue against the vein that ran along the underside of his length.

"Just—just—_fuck, yeah_—suck, sweetheart, _please_—"

I sucked, my cheeks hollowed out, and marveled at his response—his hips seemed to rock forward without any direction at all—back and forth, over and over—the blunt head of his cock catching the back of my throat—back and forth, over and over—and then it was as if he was _fucking _my mouth, his fingers in my hair, holding my head in place, and that awful aching emptiness between my thighs seemed to multiply exponentially, turn fucking _infinite_, and all I wanted—all I fucking wanted—

"That's it, that's it, fucking—_take it_, sweetheart, all of it, yes, _yes_, just like that—so fucking good—your mouth—I've fucking _dreamed _about this—fuck—_fuck_—" he babbled.

I could feel saliva pool underneath my tongue, dribble down my chin, and then he changed the angle of his thrusts and I was fucking _choking_ and the spongy pink muscle around my tonsils contracted around his cock and he groaned long and loud and his fingernails dug into my scalp and the pain was _extraordinary_—

"_Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck_ I'm going to—I'm fucking—_Hermione_—" he said helplessly.

He shuddered, and then he growled, and then he _came_, filling my mouth with something hot and salty and _masculine_—he tasted precisely like he smelled, I thought hazily.

I glanced up.

He was still staring at me, his eyes glazed over.

I swallowed.

He exhaled sharply.

"I think I did alright," I mused smugly. "Don't you?"

He laughed disbelievingly.

"Brilliant, sweetheart," he replied, collapsing next to me. "You did fucking _brilliant_."

And then his arms were around me, and he was pulling me down, arranging my head on his chest, his lips pressed against the top of my head—

My heart pounded into my ribcage.

"What did you mean when you said you'd _dreamed _about me doing that?"

"I meant that I've wanked while thinking about this exact scenario more times than I'd care to admit," he replied with a snort.

I blushed.

"Oh."

"Indeed."

He rolled me over, tucking a sheet around my shoulders before sitting up.

"Think I'll put a shirt on before anyone comes back from dinner," he muttered, climbing off the bed.

He headed for a large mahogany chest of drawers and took out a white cotton undershirt, tugging it over his head as he meandered towards the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. He tripped over my skirt, though, and used one of the other boy's laundry hampers to break his fall. The previous day's clothes fell out—a pair of pressed black slacks and a nondescript white button-down, one of its sleeves stained bright red with—

_Blood_.

"Tom?" I whispered.

"What is it, sweetheart?" he replied distractedly.

"Whose shirt is that?" I asked, even though I already knew, I already knew, of course I already fucking knew—

"What shirt?"

I pointed at the laundry hamper. My finger was shaking.

"_That _shirt," I said. "Surely you see it. It's covered in blood."

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

"It's Lestrange's."

"And why is it covered in blood?"

He shrugged.

"Because I cut his arm."

"With what?"

"With a knife."

My chin quivered. I shouldn't have asked. I shouldn't have asked questions I already knew the answers to but I couldn't seem to fucking _stop_, couldn't seem to wrap my mind around the fact that what he'd done was becoming clearer and clearer and clearer—but I needed him to say it, I needed it confirmed, I needed to _know_, because if there was any leftover doubt—

There just couldn't be, could there?

"Why did you cut him?"

He pursed his lips.

"Because he's a Lestrange," he said simply.

_Lestrange. _

_Lestrange. _

_Lestrange._

"You're—you're _insane_," I stammered, sitting up and clutching his sheets to my chest. I was still mostly clothed—but I felt exposed in a way that made little sense—_naked_, my body seemed to whisper—and maybe it was just the way he looked at me, looked _through _me, his gaze steady and penetrating and so fucking intense it was hard to remember my own name let alone the reason I was so horrified—but then I saw the blood-soaked sleeve of that shirt peeking out from the top of Edmond's laundry hamper and remembered what he'd done and _it didn't fucking matter _that he'd done it for me, done it to avenge me, done it with some sickly twisted idea of justice in mind—blood was blood was blood, red, thick, warm, it was all the same, all of it, and _it didn't fucking matter _who it came from, not when nothing he said or did was going to make the scar on my arm—that hateful fucking word—ever go away—not ever not ever not ever it was never going to go away—

But it was more than that, less than that, because a part of me—a small part, please, please, be a small part, _please_—_wasn't _horrified at all. A part of me had seen the stains and heard his explanation and been fucking _glad_ for the retribution, imagined and otherwise. A part of me had recalled the pain and the humiliation and been _happy _that it had been inflicted on someone else, someone who wasn't me. And maybe I was a coward for not wanting to face that, for not wanting to admit to it. Maybe I wasn't any better than him. Maybe I wasn't better than any of them.

I turned my head to the side.

I took a deep breath.

"Insane," I repeated, my voice growing stronger. "Absolutely insane."

He stared at me seriously. His eyes were a brilliant obsidian, shining weakly in the semi-darkness, and his hands were large and pale and tense against the edge of the bed.

"If I'm insane, sweetheart—" He paused, and then continued. "If I'm _insane_—it would only ever be for you."

It occurred to me that that was possibly the closest Tom Riddle would ever come to admitting I meant something to him. I pushed the thought—stupid stupid _stupid_ fucking thought—to the blackest, bleakest corner of my mind. I couldn't think that. I wouldn't think that.

"That doesn't excuse—you shouldn't have—you _know _that Edmond had nothing to do with what happened to me."

"You said it was a Lestrange."

I slid out of his bed and stood up on shaky legs.

"By _marriage_."

"And would you have told me what family she_ actually_ came from? If I'd asked?"

I bent down to pick up my skirt.

"No," I admitted.

"Exactly. And since traveling fifty years into the bloody future and finding out for myself wasn't an option, I—well, I did the best I could, didn't I?"

I pulled on my skirt and zipped up the side with a decisive flick of my wrist.

"Mutilating Edmond's arm is hardly your _best_."

"I don't understand what I did wrong, Hermione," he said with obvious consternation. "Your arm—what was done to you—how do you not want revenge for that? How can you—if Edmond had actually been the one to do it to you, I swear I would have killed him, you _know _I would have killed him, and—fucking hell, Hermione, I did what I did to him for _you_!"

And then my brain clicked off and I couldn't hold back anymore and I knew, before I even opened my fucking mouth that whatever was about to come out was going to ruin _everything_—

"You're such a _hypocrite_, Tom."

He jerked backwards.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You're a hypocrite," I snarled.

"Oh?"

"_Oh_," I mimicked cruelly. "_Yes. _Because what was _done to me_—not by Edmond, not even by a real Lestrange—was done for_ you_, for _your _precious Pureblood cause, for _you _to prove that you're _so much better _than the rest of us—she did it because she knew that you would _like _that she had! Because she knew that you would _enjoy _the idea of having me humiliated, at her mercy, bleeding and in pain and—and—_God_, she probably would have bottled the memory and given it to you as a bloody Christmas gift if you hadn't—" I broke off abruptly.

He swallowed.

"Who?" he whispered.

I scoffed.

"One of your many minions," I answered bitterly. "Who else?"

His face—already so pale—went chalk-white. And then—

"I—I have minions? In the future?"

The sudden silence was oppressive—too dense, too thick, too full of all the things he should have said instead—because, God, but how could I have been so fucking _idiotic_? He was—he wasn't—_he wasn't meant for me_, he wasn't, he wasn't meant for me and I didn't belong with him and I didn't even fucking belong _there_ and I wanted to go home, I needed to fucking go home, _he wasn't meant for me_, not for me, not for me, never for me—

I could still taste his cum on my tongue. Tangy, musky, slightly sour—delicious, really. The realization hit me like a rough punch to the gut.

"I tell you that someone did _this_ to me—" I yanked up my sleeve and pointed at my scar. He didn't flinch. "—because of _you_, and your first question—your first question is _that_?"

"Sweetheart—"

"_No_," I hissed, backing into the door. I hit it with a jarring thud. "Do _not _call me that. You don't—_no_. You don't _get _to call me that."

He approached me slowly, cautiously.

"_Hermione_—"

I cut him off again.

"Don't you want to know about your _minions_, Riddle? Your faithful followers? Don't you want to know how many there are? Maybe their names? How exceptionally _loyal _they are to you? Don't you want to know _all_ about them?"

He watched me talk, his expression blank, placid, unchanging—the only outward sign that he was even listening, even hearing me, was the barely-there twitch in his jaw, the rest of the muscle cording down his neck, pulled taut like a bowstring.

"You're overreacting," he said calmly.

I let out a mirthless bark of laughter.

"Am I?" I challenged.

He arched a brow.

"Yes. You are."

My lip curled.

"You don't even know what I'm talking about," I retorted. "How can you be sure I'm not reacting exactly as I should be?"

"This is ridiculous. All I did was—"

"All you did was _prove_ that your precious fucking _plans _are more important to you than I am!" I shouted.

He smirked.

"Did you just say _fuck_, sweetheart?"

My mouth fell open.

"You—you—stop trying to change the subject!"

He shook his head.

"I have no idea what you want me to say," he said. "I can't help what my initial reaction to your…revelation was."

"Oh, for the love of—do I have to spell it out?" I demanded.

"Maybe you do."

"I _know _that I'm nothing to you, really, just a—what did you call it?—a means to an end? I know that. You want to protect me and keep me for yourself because you think that I can be _useful_. But you didn't have to—"

I couldn't finish. I couldn't say it. I'd sound silly, stupid, foolish—I'd sound like a naïve little girl, unwilling to acknowledge the reality of her situation.

"I didn't have to _what_?" he pressed.

I curled my hands into fists.

"You didn't have to _pretend_," I snapped. "You didn't have to—to bring me flowers and call me _sweetheart _and defend me when Malfoy said those horrible things earlier. You didn't have to let me think it _meant anything_."

He didn't blink. He didn't move.

"What—" He hesitated. He cleared his throat. "What makes you think that it didn't?"

I bit down on the inside of my mouth. It hurt. The pain was welcome.

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" I asked.

I noticed that the button at the top of his trousers was still undone. I badly wanted to cry.

"Obviously not," he sneered.

My spine stiffened.

"I know you in the future," I said coldly. "I know you in the future—and I _hate _you. I loathe you. Everything about you. You're—you're vile. You're violent. You prey on anyone you deem weaker than you. You're a murderer, you're a monster, and _I will never help you_. I will never help you become that. I will_ never—_" I stopped. I inhaled shakily. "So to answer your question from earlier…yes. Yes, you have _minions_. I hope they make you very happy."

He stayed still—too still, eerily still—his shoulders broad and strong and perfectly straight. And when he spoke, his voice was rough, strangely coarse, his words slurred together as if he couldn't get them out fast enough—

"I don't believe you."

I scoffed.

"Too bad."

His nostrils flared.

"You're _lying_. I don't know what you're fucking playing at, but you're _lying_."

I crossed my arms over my chest.

"I'm not."

He glanced surreptitiously at his bed. His wand was lying across the rumpled, silky green sheets.

"Yes, you _are_," he insisted.

"What makes you think that?"

He took a step towards me.

"Because ten minutes ago, you were on your knees with my cock in your mouth," he growled. "Because ten minutes ago, you let me _come_ down your fucking throat and you _liked it_. If I was really such a fucking monster, I doubt either of those things would have ever come to pass. _Sweetheart_."

I fumbled for the doorknob. I had to leave. I had to get away. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't see him. Not now. Not like this. I needed—I needed to run. I needed to hide. I needed to wash my fucking mouth out and forget he fucking existed—because he was right, he was right, he was right—he was a _monster_, that's what I knew him as, that's what he _was_, and I couldn't have forgotten that, I couldn't have, I absolutely fucking _couldn't have_—

But I had.

I'd forgotten. I'd pretended. I'd thought—

I'd thought nothing. Fucking _nothing_.

"You're wrong," I informed him quietly. "Really, _really_ wrong."

His gaze flickered with something I didn't understand—something that might have been remorse, but it was too dark, too hard to tell, and it was gone so quickly, too quickly, and I started to wonder if it had even been real.

"Hermione—" he tried.

"I have to go," I choked out, nearly paralyzed with relief when I heard the door click open, when I saw light stream into the room. "I have to go. Now. I have to go now."

"Hermione—_please—_"

But I wasn't listening anymore.

I was already running away.

OOO


	14. XIII

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I am so, so, so sorry this took so long to get up. I've been using the "I'm sick!" excuse for awhile now on tumblr, and I should probably just tell you guys what's wrong so that you don't think I'm dying. So. _**Personal, real-life update, y'all**_:

I'm pregnant! With twins! On accident!

(Yay?)

I'm about thirteen weeks along. I have the worst morning sickness in the history of all morning sickness, and literally can keep nothing down except ginger green tea and Mcdonald's French fries. I also burst into tears while watching Top Chef the other night. (My life is trying its absolute hardest to turn itself into a romantic comedy. I am not amused.) That said, between the hormone-driven crying fits and constant state of nausea, writing has…kind of not been my top priority. I feel guilty saying that, so I'm going to make a sincere effort to continue to update this story every 7-10 days; I just can't promise anything, especially since I've adopted the sleeping habits of a hibernating Grizzly bear.

Quick change of subject, though, and then I promise we can all get on with the chapter. (Which is crazy long. Because everyone seemed to be in agreement that super long chapters are awesome.)

Okay. So I definitely don't mean to be snarky when I say this—but I got a review last week that was basically nothing more than a really long, really poorly phrased attack on every single aspect of both this story and my writing. A few of you made a point of defending me via review (and PM)—and this is what I really wanted to say—_**thank you thank you thank you**_!__It was so sweet. And made me want to be best friends with all of you. Legit best friends. Even though I'm terrible at human interaction. But we can totally get past that. Eventually. Maybe. Whatever.

Moving on! Tom's journal entries are going to get longer and longer as the plot continues to thicken—this story isn't really about him being unwilling to recognize that he has feelings for Hermione. On the contrary, I'm trying to focus more on how completely unhealthy his _acknowledged_ feelings for her actually are. He is damaged. He is emotionally incompetent. He is dangerously possessive. (He's also a tiny bit crazy.) All that aside, I'm pleased with how he's developing as a character. I know that a ton of you are especially eager for him to discover exactly how awful of a Dark Lord he is in the future—and while I do have that scene penciled into my outline, I haven't quite decided how I want to approach it, so I'm putting it off for a little longer.

Anyway.

Props to all of you who managed to get through another one of my freakishly long author's notes. And enjoy this chapter! The next one should be up in another week or so. It's already half-written.

xoxo Andrea

OOO

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

_October 19, 1944_

_ I spent most of last night thinking about what she said to me—turning over her words like nondescript rocks in a riverbed, searching fruitlessly for some other, different, __**better**__ meaning—because surely, __**surely**__, she was lying. Exaggerating. Surely I didn't have anything to do with—_

_ No._

_ I would never—_

_ Not her. Not her. Anyone else—but not her. I __**know **__that I wouldn't—_

_ I __**couldn't.**_

___Not her._

_ She was lying._

_ She was lying. _

_ She had to have been lying._

_ However—_

_ Fifty years is a long time. I was initially excited—eager, even—about the possibility of being able to know my own future. To have some idea of how to fix mistakes before I even made them._

_But now—_

_Now it's all tainted, ruined, stained with a paralyzing sort of uncertainty—because what if that terrible feeling I've had lately—the one that comes from nowhere, the one that makes me think of choking and gasping and losing anything that might even distantly resemble __**control**__—what if I was wrong about it? What if it has nothing to do with __**her**__ and everything to do with—_

_ She is an abysmal liar. _

_ She was not lying._

_ Which means—_

_**No.**_

___I will not—_

_ I __**could **__not—_

_**No**__._

_ Not her. Not her. Not her. _

_ But she was not lying._

_ The worst part, I think, is that it's all so very fucking __**believable**__. I mean—my God, I __**killed **__a fucking muggle-born two years ago—just to prove a fucking point. I've never felt badly about that before now. It was necessary. It served a purpose. I'm a descendent of Salazar Slytherin. I had to make sure that my Knights knew that. I had to make sure that they knew what I was capable of. I had to assert myself as—_

_ As what?_

_ She called me a monster._

_ My father—_

_ No._

_**Not **__my father. _

_ He called my mother—_

_ He said that I was unnatural. That __**she**__ had been unnatural. That he would never accept me, because there wasn't a single part of me worth accepting. I wasn't his son. I was an abomination. An aberration. He said that I was vile. He said that I was stupid if I'd ever thought otherwise. He said I should never have even been born, that I __**wouldn't **__have ever been born if it hadn't been for my mother's magic, my mother's desperation, that he would have been better off—so much better off—if she'd just killed him before he could ever get her pregnant._

_ He laughed at me._

_ He laughed at me when I made some hopeful, asinine remark about how very much I resembled him._

_ He called my mother a monster._

_ He called __**me**__ a monster._

_ He called me a lot of things._

_ And then I killed him._

_ He deserved it. He did. If my mother hadn't been so fucking blinded by his face—__**my **__face—she would have seen him for what he was. Weak. Inadequate. Ignorant. A waste of fucking—_

_ He deserved it. _

_**God**__. _

_I wish, even now, that there had been blood. That something tangible and viscous and fucking __**resolute **__had clung like sickly sticky wax paper to my hands—proof that he had lived and died and that I'd been the last to see him do either. I wish that I'd taken the time to make it hurt. To make him scream. I wish that I hadn't been in a rush, that I could have used his ugly monogrammed letter opener to slit his fucking throat—I wish I could have felt the blade, dull and short, slice through layers of gristly red muscle, catching, ripping, tearing a jagged, ragged path across his vocal chords—he wouldn't have been able to talk anymore, wouldn't have been able to make another fucking sound, and I __**would**__ have—oh, I fucking would have—if that idiot fucking gardener hadn't come walking up the drive and interrupted me. I would have made him regret what he'd said. I would have made him regret everything. I would have killed him the muggle way—__**slowly**__—just to hear him __**beg **__for death by magic._

_ The irony would have been beautiful. So fucking beautiful. Because—_

_**Fuck**__._

_ He __**knew **__about me. He __**knew **__that she was pregnant. He __**knew **__that I was rotting away in that disgusting fucking orphanage while he—while he—feigned amnesia and played the fucking country squire. And he had the nerve to call her—to call __**me**__—a monster?_

_ But—_

_ I wonder now if he wasn't wrong. Hermione seemed rather certain of it. Hermione—_

_**Hermione**__._

_**Hermione.**_

_** Hermione.**_

_ I could never have—_

_ Not her. Not her. _

_ She ran away from me. And she looked—lost. Like she didn't know where she was running to. I never meant for her to find out about Edmond. I knew she wouldn't like it. She's a bloody Gryffindor, after all, and God knows that __**they**__ tend to think of 'revenge' as the filthiest fucking word in the dictionary. The idea of solving a problem without the aid of an authority figure would probably send the lot of them into hysterics. _

_ But—_

_ What I did to Edmond—it wasn't a mistake. I won't let it be a mistake. It was not a mistake. And she knew it. I could see that she knew it, even as she backed into the door and tried to look horrified—there was a spark of satisfaction in her eyes that she couldn't quite hide, a grim sort of appreciation, and one day—eventually—she'll accept that feeling for what it is. She'll have to. Because it was not a mistake. _

_And I thought of __**her**__—of what was done to her—the entire time I held the knife to his arm. I thought about her face and the way her lips had trembled, just the slightest bit, when she talked about how it had felt to be cut open and carved into and humiliated. I thought about how fucking __**badly **__I'd wanted to take a fucking hammer to the skull of whoever had— _

_ I thought about so many things, and none of them—_

_ None of them were apparently the __**right**__ things._

_ Because I __**didn't **__think about how Edmond was technically not to blame for what had happened to her. I didn't think about how loudly he cried out when the blade first pierced his skin. I didn't think about how much Hermione would hate what I was doing. I didn't think about the fact that Edmond didn't know what was going on, what he'd done wrong, what it meant that I was scratching __**Mudblood**__ into his forearm as crudely and viciously as I knew how._

_ I just don't—_

_ I don't __**understand. **_

___I don't understand what was wrong about what I did. It was not a mistake. It wasn't. Morality is not such a clear-cut concept that she can use it as an excuse to condemn me for wanting to avenge her. There is nothing senseless or pointless or useless about____my motives. She could not—__**cannot**__—argue otherwise. My intent was to hurt him, yes, but—_

_ I shouldn't care what she thinks. _

_ I shouldn't care that she looked as if I'd slapped her when I brought up the—_

_**The blowjob**__._

_ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The __**fucking**__ blowjob. _

_ It was phenomenal. __**She **__was phenomenal. The image of her lips wrapped around my cock—pouty pink and slick with saliva—God, I'll never get it out of my head. _

_It—_

_She—_

_It all felt so much __**better **__than I thought it would. I mean—she __**swallowed**__ my cum. I wonder if she liked it. She didn't say—but I think she looked pleased. Like she would enjoy doing it again. Like she would—_

_ She won't, of course. _

_ Which is regrettable. I might have had to blackmail her into dating me, but for the past several days, things between us have been…different. Amicable. Good. Almost what I imagine it would be like to be __**simple**__—to want nothing more from life than a smile and a peck on the cheek from a pretty girl. __**No one's**__ smile is worth the price of my ambition, of course, but if such a smile __**did**__ happen to exist…_

_ It would be hers._

_ She is as innocent as I suspected. She stared at my cock for a full half-minute before speaking—stared and stared and stared, her expression vacillating between shock and arousal and indecision, her emotions obvious and fleeting. I would have thought it adorable, actually, had I not been so preoccupied with the realization that my cock was less than an inch away from the warm, wet heat of her mouth. _

_ She said she wanted to._

_ She licked her lips—unconsciously, I'm sure of it—and when I made a vain, halfhearted attempted at being chivalrous and told her she didn't have to—__**she**__ told __**me**__ that she __**wanted **__to suck my cock. (Well. She didn't use those __**precise**__ words—if she had, I would have certainly come in my fucking trousers—but it amounted to the same thing, I suppose.) I just don't—_

_**Why**__ did she want to? _

_ She'd never done it before. She had only the vaguest notion of what she was even doing—not that that mattered—I was more or less just fucking her mouth by the end of it—but something small and unfamiliar pinched inside my chest when I saw her kneeling on the bed, her nerves endearingly evident—she looked perfectly submissive waiting for my direction, waiting for me to tell her what to do, how to do it—_

_ I wonder if that heady, intoxicating sense of power is what other people find so attractive about sex. I wonder if she felt it when I—licked her—on Sunday night. I wonder if I'm imagining the heightened level of trust—in me?—that her willingness to do such a thing implies. After all—it is, inherently, a degrading act. When I think about how many girls Malfoy's been through, how many of them he never even bothered to __**feign **__an interest in—I cannot help but compare them all to Hermione and marvel at how __**different **__she is._

_ She wanted to do it. She wanted to do it for __**me**__. No coercion; no manipulation. And perhaps I'm just articulating this poorly—but—_

_ It's a shame that she found out about Edmond the way she did. He wasn't a mistake. I did not make a mistake. I do not __**ever **__make mistakes._

_ But—_

_ I cannot—_

_ Breakfast is in an hour. I confess to some measure of anxiety. She isn't stupid. She knows that she is significantly safer with me around. She knows that I can protect her. Because of that, I don't think she will publicly end our relationship. (No—our __**arrangement**__. It is not a relationship. It is imperative that I remember that.) But how will she treat me? What will she say? Will she make a scene? Start an argument? _

_ Last night—_

_ She's going to find out about my fight with Malfoy. She's going to find out that I hit him. She's going to find out what he said. I can't hide that from her. Nott and Avery and Lestrange all heard. They all saw how I reacted. I just—I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop it. He looked so smug and aristocratic and fucking __**wrong**__—I was holding my wand, but I needed to do something physical, something he wouldn't expect, and even though I'd never hit someone before—_

_ I knocked him unconscious. _

_**God.**_

_ She is—_

_ In Potions yesterday—after Malfoy made a royal ass of himself, __**again**__—she __**smiled**__ at me. Softly. Reverently. Like I'd fucking __**saved **__her. (Which is preposterous. All I did was remind Malfoy of his inferiority. And lately…he has needed more than one reminder. I'll have to speak to him about that.) But she—her mouth curved up at the corners and her teeth peeked out from behind her lips and it wasn't a sneer or a grimace or one of her unfailingly polite simpering little smirks—no, it was a smile that reached her eyes. And it made me—_

_ It made me uncomfortable._

_ It made me nervous._

_ It made me think that my mother might have had the right of it when she starting feeding my father that fucking love potion._

_-TMR_

OOO

I looked tired.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. I brushed my hair out. I stared at my reflection. My eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. I was pale. My lips were dry. The dingy fluorescent light stained my cheeks a decidedly unflattering shade of yellow.

And I looked so fucking tired.

Which didn't make any sense. I had gone straight to bed the night before. I had slept for _eleven fucking hours_. I had very meticulously and purposefully _not _thought about Tom Riddle for _eleven fucking hours_. I had _not_ thought about what he'd done to Edmond Lestrange. I had _not_ thought about what he'd said to me before I'd left his room. I had _not_ thought about what had compelled me to get on my knees and unzip his trousers and—

I hadn't thought about any of it.

I had no reason to be tired.

"Hermione? Are you going to be much longer?"

Melania Macmillan was leaning against the open bathroom door with her arms crossed over her chest. Her nose was scrunched up impatiently.

"I'll just be a minute," I replied, fumbling for an emerald green ribbon. "Sorry. I overslept. Did you need something?"

She squinted at me.

"No," she said. "But Riddle's waiting for you in the hallway. He seemed to think you might have left for breakfast without him—sent me to check if you were still in here. Thought you might like to know."

I heaved a sigh and gathered my hair into a ponytail.

"Look, Melania, I'm absolutely knackered," I said. "And I don't really feel up to speaking Slytherin. So…did you have a question?"

She huffed and glanced away.

"Did the two of you break up?" she asked brusquely.

I straightened my tie and smoothed a hand down the front of my sweater. I almost laughed. Had we broken up? Our relationship hadn't even been _real_. He'd just used it as an excuse to stalk me. No—to _protect _me. My lip curled.

"No," I answered, my voice clear. "We didn't break up. Is that all?"

She quirked a brow.

"I heard Riddle and Abraxas got into a fight last night," she remarked casually.

I shrugged.

"Tom gave Abraxas a week's worth of detention as we were leaving Potions yesterday," I said, toying with one of the pleats in my skirt. "Abraxas seemed upset about it. I'm not surprised that they had an argument."

She pursed her lips.

"Riddle broke Abraxas' nose."

I felt dizzy. The hem of my skirt stayed bunched between my fingers.

"What?" I whispered.

Because I couldn't have heard right. I couldn't have heard what I thought I had. Tom Riddle didn't fight that way. Tom Riddle didn't use anything but magic to inflict pain. Tom Riddle didn't—he just _didn't_.

"I also heard that their fight was about _you_, not detention," she continued with a sneer. "What—shagging the Head Boy isn't enough for you? You need to string poor Abraxas along, too?"

I lifted my chin as I turned towards her.

"Abraxas and I aren't friends anymore, Melania," I said icily. "If he and Tom had a fight about me, it wasn't for the reason you're suggesting."

Her expression shifted into something cold and calculating.

"Is that so?" she hummed. "Well. That certainly lends some credibility to the _other _part of the story."

I headed over to the door and tossed her a disdainful glare.

"There's more?"

"According to Nott, yes," she replied sweetly. "Apparently, Abraxas called you a series of filthy names—something about Knockturn Alley and a crowded street corner—I imagine that you're _more_ than capable of filling in the blanks—but then Riddle went mental and supposedly _growled _at him and took a swing. You didn't hear?"

"I was sleeping," I ground out. "You saw me. When would I have heard about this?"

She twirled a strand of greasy black hair around her finger.

"I'm sure I don't know," she cooed. The sound was grating. "But you should probably go check on your boyfriend, Hermione. Abraxas is quite a lot bigger than him, isn't he?"

I stopped directly in front of her.

"But Melania—I thought you said he was waiting for me in the hall," I reminded her, feigning confusion. "And I know you would have _immediately_ told me if Tom appeared to be injured. Right? You're always so helpful. Like when Abraxas was sick last month—you brought him muffins, didn't you?"

She narrowed her watery brown eyes.

"I did," she said. "Which is more than I can say for _you_. Or did you just think you could make him feel better with one of your insipid little smiles?"

I smirked.

"Abraxas _did _always like my smile," I mused thoughtfully. "I mean, when he gave me his family's betrothal ring he even said—"

"Right," she interjected, her voice overloud in the tiny, white-tiled bathroom. "Except now you're with Riddle. So whatever Abraxas said…it doesn't matter. You're with Riddle. Abraxas _knows_ that."

I rested my hand on the door frame, digging my fingernails into the slightly soft wood.

"Of course you're right," I demurred. "But—oh! I completely forgot to tell you—I met one of your cousins a few weeks ago. The night I was attacked."

Her normally sallow skin turned white.

"You—you did?" she stammered, straining for nonchalance.

I twisted my lips.

"I did," I confirmed with a polite nod. "He was…roaming the grounds. Was he here to see you?"

She watched me from beneath stubby black lashes.

"I have a lot of cousins," she replied evasively. "I'm not sure who you mean."

I cocked my head to the side.

"Well," I began, "he was older. Middle-aged, I think. And he had a scar that went diagonally across most of his face. He was also _quite _talkative."

Her jaw twitched.

"A scar?" she repeated. "I don't have any cousins with scars like that. You're positive he said he was a Macmillan?"

I tapped my chin with my index finger.

"Positive. Although—he might have mentioned being a squib, too, now that I think about it. Do you have a lot of squib cousins, Melania?"

She worked her mouth helplessly for several long seconds.

"What, exactly, are you implying?" she finally asked.

I let out an unassuming giggle.

"Oh, I didn't mean to _offend _you," I said hastily. "It's just—well, it's rather _odd_ that he was here at all, isn't it? Your cousin?"

She stared at me impassively.

"I don't know who you're talking about, so I'm afraid that I can't comment on whether or not his behavior was—ah—_odd_."

I appraised her silently—her facial muscles were tight, taut, folded in on themselves as if waiting for permission to collapse, and her eyes were stubbornly pinned to a point somewhere just above my right shoulder. Her pupils were dilated, big and round and black and almost _fluttering_, contracting and expanding their shape in time with her breathing. She didn't move.

"I didn't say his _behavior _was odd," I responded cheerfully. "Just his presence. And I was going to ask you—after I saw him, I mean—because Tom mentioned that you might know what he was doing here—"

"You told Tom?" she interrupted.

"That I ran into your cousin?"

"Yes."

I frowned.

"Tom knows about everything that happened that night," I said blithely.

She barely reacted—but I had been a Slytherin for over six weeks, had spent half of that time fucking _dating _the fucking antichrist—and I knew what to look for. The changes would be subtle. They wouldn't be obvious. The skin between her eyes might momentarily crinkle. The pulse at the base of her throat might thrum quickly enough to cause the veins in her neck to jerk and throb and jump as she swallowed. She might relax her shoulders—a brief hitch in her posture, nothing dramatic, just enough for whoever was watching to infer that she _wasn't bothered wasn't worried no not worried nothing was wrong everything was fine I promise fine fine fine_—

She reached up to scratch the side of her cheek. Her hand stayed steady.

"Speaking of Tom," she said brightly. "He's—he's waiting for you. You should go. I'm sure he's—impatient. Especially after last night—the fight with Abraxas. I'm sure he's anxious to see you."

I gave her a vague approximation of a smile.

"I'm sure," I replied drolly. "But—before I go—what kind of muffins did you bring Abraxas when he was sick? They smelled _amazing, _you see, and I'd really like to get Tom something to take his mind off of things. I know how much he hates it when there's discord in the house."

She froze.

"I—I don't remember," she said. "It_ was_ almost a month ago."

I trapped her gaze with my own. I deliberately didn't blink.

"That's a pity," I murmured. "Oh, well. It was worth a try. Have a good morning, Melania."

I brushed past her on my way through the door and into our dormitory. Her body was tense. I felt a belated surge of triumph as I slung my book bag over my shoulder and confidently stepped into the hallway.

And then I faltered.

Tom Riddle was waiting for me. Tom Riddle was always waiting for me. And he was staring down at the floor—scowling, really—and I was suddenly painfully, _woefully_ aware of how completely fucking unprepared I was for this encounter.

Because I wasn't ready to see him. I wasn't ready to face what had happened the previous evening. I didn't think I could hold his hand and look into his eyes and not want to cry. I didn't think I could carry on a conversation with Edmond Lestrange at breakfast while Riddle sat next to me and matter-of-factly cut into his waffles—the sight of him with a knife in his hand would be too much, too soon, too fucking _haunting_, and I didn't think I could do it.

I wondered, fleetingly, it that made me weak.

I shook the thought out of my head.

It didn't matter if it made me weak. It didn't matter if I could handle it. It didn't matter if I could handle _him_. Because I had to. I had to see him. I had to face him. I had to pretend that nothing was wrong, and I had to be convincing about it. I had to accept that Abraxas Malfoy was no longer my friend. I had to accept that there were things going on—things that seemed to directly involve me—that I didn't understand. I had to accept that there was no one left to trust. I had to accept that I was safer with Tom Riddle around, if only because he had a bizarrely obsessive interest in keeping me alive.

I took a deep breath.

He glanced up.

"I heard you punched Abraxas," I blurted out.

He straightened his shoulders.

"And?"

I fidgeted nervously.

"And…why did you punch Abraxas?" I asked.

He wet his lips before responding.

"Because he deserved it."

My teeth clacked together.

"That isn't an answer."

He leaned into the mahogany paneled wall and tugged at his tie.

"Didn't Macmillan tell you?" he asked, a distinct edge to the question. His eyes darted to my closed dormitory door.

I froze.

And then I realized that Melania was more than likely eavesdropping. I started to walk to the common room. I didn't look back.

"Don't say anything else," he mumbled, guiding me to a sofa by the fireplace. He sat down next to me. Our thighs touched. I tried not to notice.

Melania emerged from the darkened hallway after several minutes of intense, preternatural quiet. Her gaze swept over the otherwise empty common room before settling on me and Riddle. She approached us warily.

"Everything alright, Hermione? Why aren't the two of you at breakfast?"

Riddle's hand moved from his lap to my knee. He clutched me tightly.

"We were actually just hoping for some time alone, Melania," he answered, shooting a winning smile in her direction. He shifted his body towards mine. "Right, sweetheart?"

"Right," I agreed slowly.

But Melania looked skeptical, and I was swamped by an incongruous moment of panic—she had to think we were happy. She had to think we were _together_. She had to think that Riddle would protect me. She had to—she absolutely fucking had to—because every last fiber of functional brain matter that I possessed was _screaming _at me that she was dangerous, that she knew more about me than she let on, that it was _vital _that she believe Tom Riddle and I were romantically linked—

I grabbed Riddle's hand and pointedly let it drift up the inside of my leg. His fingertips were warm as they grazed my skin. I felt a rabid red blush creep across my chest. He moved even closer, the long, lean line of his torso pressed indecently against my hips, my waist, my breasts. He dug the heel of his palm into my inner thigh. The stiff cuff of his shirt caressed the worn cotton edge of my knickers. Heat pooled in my lower abdomen.

Melania's jaw dropped.

"Oh—_oh_," she stuttered. "I didn't think—before _breakfast_—I mean, I didn't mean to interrupt."

A small, self-satisfied smirk played at the corner of Riddle's mouth. I wanted to devour him.

"Yeah," he said. His voice was deeper than usual. It rumbled through his chest, sending a wholly unwelcome tremor down and through and around my spine. His hand felt like a solid, implacable brick of lava against my thigh. "Well, you know how it is. Between lessons and roommates and my Head Boy duties…it's tough to squeeze in any real, meaningful time together."

I instantly thought of the previous day's frantic groping—sloppy swipes of our tongues, licking at each other's mouths, necks, half-naked grasping and touching and writhing that ended with his cock sliding between my lips and his cum splashing the back of my throat—I gulped and turned my face towards Riddle's chest. My breasts were crushed against his shoulder. Abruptly, his grip on my leg grew fierce.

"I—I see," Melania managed to reply with a forced smile. "I'll leave you—er—to it, then. I just wanted to make sure you were feeling alright, Tom. After last night. I heard Abraxas got quite a nasty punch in before Edmond thought to hold him back."

He stiffened—almost imperceptibly.

"I'm fine, Melania. Thank you for asking. I have a bit of a bruise on my stomach, but it hardly hurts. _Abraxas_ is the one in the hospital wing, after all," he drawled.

Melania winced.

"What?" I gasped, running my hand down Riddle's arm. The muscles there trembled. "He hit you? Why didn't you say anything, baby?"

His eyebrows arched up slightly before he was able to school his features into something eerily inexpressive.

"I didn't want to worry you, sweetheart," he said silkily, dragging a blunt-cut fingernail over the front of my knickers, treacherously close to my clit. I was wet. I knew he could feel it. But I couldn't pull away. Not while Melania was there.

"Are you hurt, though?" I asked, playing with the buttons on his shirt.

He turned to face me, then, and his gaze snapped into mine with all the force of a runaway train—his eyes were glinting with something hot and ferocious that simultaneously made me want to both run away and stay with him forever—and the air between us was thick and heavy and full of nothing but _want_, the kind of want that feels like invisible hooks clawing into our skin, urging us closer, closer, because his fingers were twitching underneath my skirt and my hand was creeping towards the top of his trousers and _fuck fuck fuck _but I shouldn't have still wanted him, not when I knew better, not like this—

"No," he murmured. "I'm not hurt, sweetheart. In fact, it turns out that I'm rather handy in a brawl."

And the statement was so patently ridiculous—so fucking _stupid_—that I couldn't help it, couldn't stop it—I laughed, deeply, loudly, like I fucking _meant_ it, and the resulting look of absolute wonder that bled into his normally blank expression almost made it worth it, almost made it worth the quick pang of guilt that sprang up when I remembered who he was and what he'd done and why being happy around him wasn't allowed.

"I—that's good, Tom," Melania said, sounding awkward. She was glancing between me and Riddle, her forehead creased in a frown. "I should get to breakfast, though. I—have a good morning. Both of you."

And then she was gone, the common room door swinging shut behind her, and we were finally alone.

Seconds went by—

But neither of us moved.

"I want to kiss you," he whispered. His fingers curled into the flesh of my inner thigh.

"I know," I replied.

Because I did know. I knew that he wanted to kiss me and that I wanted to kiss him and that as deceptively simple as it sometimes seemed—it fucking wasn't. It wasn't fucking simple. It was never going to _be _fucking simple.

"He called you a—" he broke off. "He deserved much more than a broken nose."

I still didn't move.

"I believe you."

"He really seems to hate you now, though," he went on. "You shouldn't—you should be careful around him."

I bit my lip.

"What did you do with the ring?" I asked, deftly changing the subject. "The one he gave me, I mean. Did you give it back to him?"

He cleared his throat.

"I kept it," he replied cautiously.

I furrowed my brow.

"Why?"

He didn't immediately answer.

"I want him—_them_, I mean—to think that you still have it."

"I don't understand."

He exhaled noisily.

"I think that the ring is…a backup plan of some kind," he said. "I don't think they intend to use it unless they absolutely have to. Too many people know about it. And if—_when_—the time comes, I'd like to be the one that they get when they activate the portkey."

"Wouldn't it be safer to just get rid of it?"

He clenched his jaw.

"I can take care of myself, sweetheart. Besides, I'd really like to know—for certain—who was behind all of this."

"But—but _why_? If kidnapping me using the ring is their last resort…at that point, why would it even matter?"

He grimaced.

"Because whoever was responsible for attacking you is going to _die_, Hermione. That's why."

I caught my breath.

"Oh."

He shifted closer. His body was warm.

"What did Macmillan say to you earlier? While I was waiting?"

"Melania—she had something to do with the night I was attacked," I said slowly. "She acts…_strange_ whenever I bring up anything to do with it. And she lied to me about the man who attacked me—said she doesn't have any cousins who look like him."

His thumb rubbed a soothing circle against the inside of my leg.

"That complicates things," he responded, his voice low.

"Why?"

"Because her family isn't important," he said bluntly. "They aren't Malfoys or Lestranges or—anyone, really. She has no political connections—nothing to offer someone powerful, someone who might know about where you come from. Her motivation to hurt you would be entirely personal. That makes her…unpredictable."

"I suppose you're right," I acknowledged quietly.

He stared down at me, his expression unreadable.

"I'll protect you," he vowed. "From all of them."

I felt a brittle smile steal across my face.

"Of course you will. I'm no use to you dead, am I?"

He went still.

"_Hermione_."

That was it. That was all he said. Just my name, just the once, except I could have fucking _sworn_ that I could hear an apology, a regret, and maybe even something else, something I didn't think he was even capable of saying out loud, even _meaning_—but then I finally—_finally_—gathered the tattered remains of my self-control and slid away from him—and whatever it was that I'd thought I'd heard, whatever it was that I'd thought he'd been trying to say—it was lost.

"I don't trust you," I said, neatly crossing my legs. I didn't look at him. "I _can't_ trust you. I assume that I don't have to explain why—not after what I told you last night."

"You hardly told me anything last night," he pointed out angrily. "You made me sound like a bloody terrorist and then ran away before I could find out what you meant. You—you said that I'd had something to do with—with what happened to you, to your arm, and you didn't even stick around long enough to fucking _explain what you meant_."

I sniffed.

"_Terrorist_ might be an understatement, actually," I replied spitefully.

He snorted softly.

"Let me see, then. Let me see what I am to you. I can go through your memories."

I turned towards him.

"You _actually _think that I'm stupid, don't you?"

His nostrils flared.

"Why won't you show me?" he challenged. "If I'm really that awful—shouldn't you be trying to fix me? Show me the error of my hypothetically evil ways? Isn't that how this works?"

I balled my hands into tiny, ineffectual fists.

"God, you sound like _Dumbledore_," I retorted. "Can neither of you even _begin _to comprehend how important the preservation of the timeline is? Besides, you're—you're _you_. It's not like I'd ever have a prayer of _saving you_, even if you're deluded enough to think it's a possibility."

He blinked. And then—

"You think I'll be happy about it," he said incredulously. "You think that I'll like what I see. That's it, isn't it? You're scared that I'll see myself as—as _your _version of a monster—that's what you called me, right? A monster?—you're scared that I'll see that and be _pleased_."

I could feel the blood drain from my face.

"You _would _be pleased," I managed to reply. "I mean—look at what you did to Edmond. He was _innocent_. He didn't do _anything _to deserve that kind of—"

"Oh, just fucking _spare me_, Hermione," he interjected, seething. "Spare me all the brilliantly self-righteous indignation that I'm sure your precious little Gryffindor heart is full to bursting with. _God_. Do you even know what kind of person _Edmond _is? Hmm? Do you? Do you want to hear what he did to that squib who attacked you last month? Yes? Should I tell you, then, that _Edmond's _magical talent happens to be concentrated almost entirely in slicing hexes? Did you know that? No? Did you know that _Edmond _was the very first of our year—besides me, of course—to master all three Unforgivables? Did you know that _Edmond _would gut you, rape you, and leave you for dead without a second fucking thought if he ever found out that you were a mudblood?"

_Mudblood._

_ Mudblood._

_ Mudblood._

My throat felt dry as I attempted to swallow. It was too raw. It hurt. The pain made me nauseous.

"So—so what you're saying," I croaked. "What you're saying—is that because he's good at following orders—_your _orders—and has done ethically questionable things in the past—you're saying that even if he didn't have anything to do with what happened to me…he still deserved what _you_ did to _him_. On some level. Do I have that right?"

His eyes remained cold.

"Yeah. You do."

"And what about all of the things _you've _done?" I demanded. "You know—_little things_, really—murdering your own father, setting a basilisk on a muggle-born—_those _things. Do _you_ deserve to be punished for _them_?"

He leapt to his feet.

"What did I tell you, Granger, about mentioning my fucking father?" he growled.

"Oh, _please_," I shot back. "You don't actually expect me to still be _frightened _of you? Not when you spend the majority of your spare time ever so valiantly vowing to protect me? Because, _God_—what did you say the other night, Riddle? Something about how you would never hurt me—not _now_, at least?"

He scowled down at me.

"I misspoke," he said concisely.

I scoffed.

"Look—I'm not one of your _minions_," I snarled. "I'm not going to sell you my soul to reserve a spot in _your_ version of the new world order. When you get around to that, I mean. If you ever do. Who knows, right? Certainly not _me_."

His cheeks were suffused with furious, patchy spots of red.

"You don't—"

I released a harsh bark of laughter.

"I don't know what I'm talking about?" I taunted sarcastically.

His chin jutted forward.

"The muggle-born—the basilisk—she wasn't supposed to die," he said abruptly.

I jerked backwards.

"What?"

He looked pained by the admission.

"I meant to release the basilisk—I'm the bloody _Heir of Slytherin_, for God's sake, I had to—I had to _prove _that, no one would have taken me seriously otherwise—but the bathroom…it was supposed to be empty. Malfoy was supposed to have been watching the door. But he—" He stopped and shook his head in disgust. "Malfoy was in a fucking broom closet with his hand up a fourth-year's skirt. And the muggle-born—Myrtle, I think her name was—just kind of _wandered in_, and I couldn't stop—I didn't see her quickly enough."

I absorbed this new information with a peculiar sort of detachment.

"You made a horcrux, though. That means you murdered her."

He eyed me speculatively.

"How much do you know about making horcruxes, Hermione?"

I bristled.

"Not as much as _you_, obviously."

"I technically _ordered _the basilisk to...hunt muggle-borns," he confessed. "It was the only way to get it to leave the Chamber, and I needed to prove—well. Her death—it _was _a murder—and…I'm a Slytherin, Hermione. I saw an opportunity to make a horcrux—I was mostly curious, I wasn't sure I could even do it yet—and I took it. I'm not sorry for that."

My heart hammered brutally against the inside of my chest.

"Why are you telling me this?"

He hesitated.

"I—I don't know."

I studied his face—the crisp, even planes of his cheekbones, the gentle slope of his jaw, the maddening emptiness of his dark, nearly-black eyes—and smiled sadly.

"You really _don't_ know, do you?"

His expression turned sour.

"We have Herbology in twenty minutes," he informed me curtly. "We should go. Am I still carrying your bag?"

I inhaled sharply.

"You know that we can't break up."

He sneered.

"Oh, believe me—I _know_," he hissed. "After all, you're proving to be so _useful_, aren't you, sweetheart? I can barely keep up with all the _top-secret information_ from the future you've been supplying me with—God, I'm practically _drowning_ in it, right? And that's all I want you around for, isn't it? The only reason I care to keep you alive?"

I felt inexplicably stung by his tone.

"I'm sure I don't know," I replied, my voice icy with indifference. "I've found that it's difficult to really trust anything you say either way."

His mouth tightened.

"Right. Well. We should go," he said flatly.

I stood up on unsteady legs.

"Our…_relationship_—" I spat the word out, my distaste evident. "—has seemed fairly believable to the rest of the school so far. Even Professor Dumbledore—he tried to warn me away from you, so obviously he thinks it's real, too, so—I think we should just…carry on like we have been. You can even tell your minions that you finally fucked me, if you think that will help. I know how interested they all were in that particular aspect of our…involvement."

He flinched. I picked up my book bag and held it out for him to take.

"Hermione—"

I cut him off.

"We're going to be late."

He grabbed my bag and watched me walk towards the common room door. He didn't follow.

"I didn't mean for you to find out, you know. What I did to Lestrange. You weren't meant to."

I stopped.

"You were never going to tell me?"

He approached me silently.

"No. I wasn't. I knew that you wouldn't like it."

My hand hovered over the doorknob, and I let my gaze settle on the worn brass coating, the minute dent in the center, the inky black scratches marring the hollowed, rounded edges.

"But you did it—you did it _for me_," I reminded him. "Isn't that what you said?"

He stood behind me, his breath hot on the back of my neck as it ghosted through baby-fine tendrils of hair.

"I did it for me," he amended quietly. "But—I thought—at the time—I thought it was for you. I thought I did it for you."

I pushed open the door.

"God," I choked out. "That's even worse."

We both stared out into the empty dungeon hallway.

"I still want to kiss you," he admitted.

I paused.

"I know," I said again.

He didn't say anything else.

OOO


	15. XIV

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Ohmygod. SO OVERWHELMED BY ALL OF THE INTERNET LOVE THAT WAS DIRECTED AT MY UNBORN SPAWN. Thank you! I should have mentioned, though, that I'm totally happy about being pregnant, haha. It was unexpected (I'm only 23) and the twins thing threw me off at first (it really shouldn't have—I have, like, sixteen sets of twin cousins) but then I realized that I can dress twin babies up in MATCHING ONESIES and was immediately on board. (Don't judge. I'm pretty easy to please.) I find out genders in about six weeks (I'm praying for boys. Not because I'm sexist, but because my sister and I were ACTUAL whirlwinds of terror for my mother when we were teenagers and I can't handle that level of crazy. Plus, my husband is stupidly hot, and seriously, I'd be doing the world a gigantic favor by supplying as many miniature versions of him as I possibly can. Seriously. STUPIDLY hot.) I promise that once I know what I'm having you can all suggest awesome names—'Draco' is apparently not allowed, which is bullshit, but, you know, marital harmony is sometimes important, so. Whatever. It's a legitimate name. I mean, hello, constellation anyone?

Anyway!

Thank you for all of the commiseration/tips on morning sickness, haha. My mother claims to have had symptom-free pregnancies, and none of my friends have ever been pregnant, so…the commiseration is actually really nice. My doctor switched my vitamins a few days ago, which was surprisingly helpful, but the nine million books I bought on pregnancy (so many books, you guys, I can't even) insist that twin pregnancies are just exponentially more difficult all-around, so it turns out that I'm NOT DYING. My body is just punishing me for the extra fetus. Not a big deal.

Haha. I'm so embarrassing. Ohmygod.

Okay. Moving on. Enjoy the chapter!

OOO

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

_12:30 pm_

The first half of the day passed in a blur of awkward hand-holding and tension-filled silence. Abraxas was still in the hospital wing; the rumor about Tom being the one to put him there had already spread like a rampant, extraordinarily deadly virus by the time we reached our first class. Tom ignored the stares and the whispers and the incomprehensible bouts of male camaraderie that were apparently the consequences of breaking another boy's nose—but he was used to the attention, used to being fawned over and talked about, and he was disarmingly graceful in his deflection of the myriad questions and compliments that were hurled in his direction.

Until Slughorn approached us halfway through lunch and informed Tom that the Headmaster needed to see him. Tom immediately plastered on a lopsided, self-deprecating sort of half-grin that even I could tell was forced—and turned towards Edmond.

"Get Hermione to her next lesson," he commanded quietly. "_Safely_, Lestrange."

Edmond's expression morphed into something pinched and hostile.

"Yeah," he replied, taking a swig of pumpkin juice. "I can do that. Yeah."

Tom's eyes flashed a warning as he stood up to leave.

"Make _sure_ that you do," he said, his tone clipped. "Alright?"

Edmond slowly bobbed his head in agreement.

"Alright, Tom."

Tom nodded, just once, before glancing at me. His smile faltered.

"I don't know how long this will take," he said, leaning down to kiss my cheek. His lips were warm and soft and dry. "And I don't like leaving you alone—but Malfoy's still in the hospital wing, and Lestrange knows that if anything happens to you he'll be short most of his vital organs before he can even fucking _think _the word 'run'—so—if I'm not back by the time lunch is over, just—it should be fine, I don't—I don't really think anyone is going to try anything in the middle of the day, but—you'll be fine. You'll—you'll be fine. I promise."

I reached up and ran my hand down the front of his sweater. His heartbeat was strong and steady and maybe—_probably_—much too fucking fast. I didn't think about what that meant. I _wouldn't_ think about what that meant.

I abruptly pulled away from him.

"Okay," I said stiffly. "Thanks. I'll just…see you later, then."

His jaw tightened. I told myself that he didn't look hurt.

"Of course. Later."

And then he was leading Slughorn out of the Great Hall, and I was left alone with Edmond.

Edmond—who was glumly staring down at his plate, picking at the crusty remains of his peanut butter sandwich. Edmond—who had had his forearm brutalized by Tom Riddle only two days earlier. Edmond—who I still wasn't certain I could look at without stammering an apology that wouldn't make sense to anyone but me.

"So—er—how have you been?" I asked.

He snorted.

"He told you, I take it?"

I furrowed my brow.

"Told me what?"

He pursed his lips. They were chapped and scabbed over and severely bitten. I suddenly felt sick.

"What he did. To me. On Monday," he clarified. "He bragged about it to Malfoy—although maybe _brag _is the wrong word—it might have just been an unusually _visceral _warning to stay the hell away from you—and I'm just assuming, based on your guilt-stricken expression, that he mentioned it to you as well."

I swallowed uncomfortably.

"I saw your shirt," I said. "The one with—with blood on it. On the sleeve. It fell out of your laundry basket last night. Tom wasn't—he wouldn't have told me if I hadn't seen that."

His gaze sharpened.

"Really," he mused. It wasn't a question.

I twisted my napkin in my lap.

"Really," I confirmed.

He scratched at his arm.

"Well. That's interesting."

"Why?"

"Because it means that he hasn't gotten to you yet," he said nonchalantly. "It means that he's not—that he hasn't decided what to use you for. Besides the obvious, I mean."

I stiffened.

"Excuse me?"

"Come off it, Granger. I'm the only one here. We both know what he is."

I cocked my head to the side.

"And what is he, Edmond?" I asked icily.

He let out an unpleasant laugh.

"Besides a sadist?"

I broke off a piece of chocolate-chip cookie and methodically stuffed it into my mouth.

"You're being awfully candid today," I observed.

His demeanor turned sour.

"I tried to warn you," he said, his voice low. "I tried to tell you—"

"No," I interrupted. "No, you didn't. You made a series of cryptic comments with absolutely no discernible commonalities and then sent me off to bed. I wouldn't exactly call that _making an effort_."

He checked his watch and got to his feet.

"Come on. You have Arithmancy next, yeah?"

I paused.

"Yeah."

"Let's go, then."

He didn't wait for me, so I heaved a sigh, hitched my book bag over my shoulder, and scurried after him, pretending not to notice Melania Macmillan frown as she watched us walk away.

"Hey! Wait—will you just—_Edmond_!" I called out when we reached the empty entrance hall.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and glanced down at me, clearly exasperated.

"Keep up, will you? Macmillan's almost as obsessed with you as Riddle is, and she's about half as subtle when she gets it in her head to eavesdrop. We need to go somewhere private."

"Can I see your arm first?" I blurted out.

He lurched backwards.

"What?"

"Your arm," I repeated. "I'd like to see it."

He narrowed his eyes.

"Why?"

I fought the urge to cross my own arms over my chest.

"Because I want to see what he did. It couldn't be fixed, right? By magic? The—the cuts are still there?"

He chewed the inside of his mouth.

"How did you know that?"

"How did I know what?"

"That the knife he used was…special. I doubt that he told you."

I reached up to tighten the ribbon in my hair.

"Well, he _did _tell me," I retorted. "And I'd like to see what he—I'd just like to see. There was quite a lot of blood."

He exhaled loudly. I picked at my cuticles.

"Fine," he muttered, hurrying up the stairs and disappearing down the first available corridor. I huffed indignantly and followed him. He came to a halt outside of an empty classroom.

"In here," he said, marching into the classroom. He shut the door behind us.

"What are you—" I bleated.

He wrenched up his sleeve—

And my stomach twisted—_mudblood_—dropped—_mudblood_—heaved—_mudblood mudblood mudblood_—

It was just so fucking _familiar_.

The skin had yet to heal. The incisions were still bright red and crusted over with blood. But they were neater, straighter, more uniform in size and shape—I could already tell that his scar would look nothing like mine. It would eventually fade into even, waxy white lines; noticeable when the light hit it at a certain angle, but otherwise invisible. It wasn't the same as mine. It wasn't even close. I wasted a long second marveling at that—at how that word—that hateful fucking word—looked so incredibly _different _etched into his skin than it did into mine.

"Do you know why he—" I started to ask.

"No."

"He didn't tell you?"

He rolled his sleeve back down over his wrist.

"All he said was that I'd _figure it out eventually_," Edmond told me bitterly.

"Did Tom seem…" I trailed off, uncertain. "Angry? While he—did it?"

He scowled.

"Yes and no," he replied, running anxious fingers through his hair. "At first he was—well—fucking _furious_, actually. I had no idea—I didn't know what had happened. What I'd done. I thought he might have found out—it doesn't matter what I thought. But he asked me all these questions—really fucking weird questions—about my family and how loyal I was to them and…I felt like he was testing me, to be honest, which—yeah, I'm aware—doesn't make any fucking sense. But then he took out a knife—his fucking _Potions _knife, which was just—fucking hell, his _Potions knife_, Granger—and—well. I'm sure you can figure out the rest."

I took a deep, calming breath.

"Why—why _mudblood_, though? He didn't say?"

His lip curled.

"I can guess."

I appraised him thoughtfully. Average height, slender build, sallow skin. Thin, pale pink lips and a small, upturned nose. Close-cropped black hair that looked shiny in the midday light streaming through the windows. Thick eyebrows. Square chin. Delicate jawline. Beady brown eyes that were never still, always moving—he was intelligent, and he was cunning, and I wondered briefly why Tom was so intent on underestimating him.

"You can guess?" I echoed.

The glare he shot me was shrewd and slightly acerbic.

"It has something to do with Malfoy," he said shortly. "He's been…acting out lately. I don't think Tom trusts him anymore, and because I'm the closest thing to a friend that Malfoy's got—without tits, at least—Tom's using me to send a message."

"That doesn't make any sense, though," I pointed out. He was wrong, of course. I knew that he was wrong. But he was close—so fucking close—to telling me something that I instinctively knew was _important_. Something that Tom would never be careless enough to let slip. "If he's trying to send _Abraxas _a message—or a warning—or _anything_—why would he do it through _you_? Especially the way—the way that he did."

He glanced at his watch.

"Because I'm not the one who has to go find fucking _Grindewald_ as soon as school is over," he replied with a grimace. "Fucking _branding _me like this—it won't affect Tom's plans. Malfoy's the one who matters. Malfoy's the one who can't have any outward connection to anything muggle or muggle-born—God, can you even fucking imagine? Showing up to see _Grindewald _with 'mudblood' basically _tattooed_ on his fucking forearm? It would be suicide. Actual fucking suicide."

I was delirious with astonishment. I hoped—no, I fucking _prayed_—that he didn't notice. Because what he'd said—it shouldn't have been surprising. It shouldn't have been confusing.

But it was.

It was surprising. It was confusing. It was—

Doubt washed over me like a bucket of ice-cold water. Why would Edmond mention any of this to me? Why was he talking to me about things that he had to have known were supposed to be kept a secret? Was he, even now, gauging my reaction—reading, searching, judging my expression and the length of time it took me to respond and whether or not I was able to muster up a smile, fake or forced or otherwise?

"It still sounds more like a punishment than a warning," I informed him. "And 'mudblood' is an oddly _specific_ epitaph, isn't it?"

He tucked his hands into his trouser pockets.

"It's a reminder—to all of us, not just me and Malfoy—that we're beneath him. That he's better than us. That he's the one with the fucking power."

I regarded him steadily.

"Why are you trying so hard to rationalize his brutality? Why bother putting up with it at all?"

"You're his girlfriend," he answered with a casual shrug of his shoulders. "Why do _you _put up with it?"

I held his gaze.

"I don't."

He quirked his lips.

"_Liar_," he said mockingly.

I lifted my chin.

"We should get going," I said. My voice was firm. "We only have a couple of minutes before class starts."

He didn't move.

"Look, Granger. I don't know what you're playing at by dating him—although I _do_ have a few theories—but—Tom is…not someone you want to fuck around with," he said, his tone serious. "He doesn't—he isn't normal. He isn't like Malfoy. He isn't going to fucking follow you around like a puppy and not expect something in return. And—_don't_ fucking look at me like that—I'm not talking about sex. Christ. I already said he wasn't like Malfoy. I'm just—for your own good, you shouldn't…he has plans, alright? Elaborate, scary, ridiculously ambitious plans. And ever since you showed up, he's been distracted. He doesn't do things by halves. For fuck's sake, he makes me get you those stupid fucking roses from the greenhouses every Monday before the sun's even up. But—my point is—if you keep up whatever it is you're doing with him—his elaborate, scary, ridiculously ambitious plans are going to fucking _fail_. And he _will _blame you. And I don't fucking care who your uncle is—Tom's wickedly good at getting even when he feels like it. He'll make it hurt."

I bit the inside of my mouth hard enough to draw blood.

"I'm not exactly naïve enough to think you're telling me this because you're concerned for my wellbeing," I ground out.

He smirked.

"We all have a lot invested in Tom," he said simply. "If he fails, so do we."

I wiped my hands on the front of my skirt. My palms were sweaty.

"So you want me to…what, break up with him?" I asked, incredulous.

He snorted.

"He'd never let you."

I gritted my teeth.

"Then what are you _talking_ about?"

He didn't immediately reply.

"I'm telling you to pick a fucking side, Granger," he finally said. "You _know_ what I'm talking about."

I nodded slowly—yes, because I _did _know what he was talking about, of course I knew what he was talking about—and _yes_, my brain was whirring and working at a fast, furious pace—and it was ironic, I decided, that _Edmond Lestrange _apparently considered me untrustworthy. Conversations with him routinely left me feeling puzzled and weak; he was a master of dropping hints and littering innocuous adolescent rants with seemingly solid facts—piecing together what he said out loud with what he implied using carefully measured silences was a serpentine, inappropriately dizzying exercise in futility. He always provided just enough information to pique my interest, but not so much that I could fully understand what he was really trying to say. And, just like Abraxas, he seemed to think that behaving like a typical teenaged boy—overtly crass and more than a little bit dense—was enough of a distraction to ensure that no one would ever realize exactly how dangerous he was.

Not even Tom.

Especially not Tom.

"I heard Tom and Abraxas got in a fight last night," I remarked, ostensibly to change the subject.

His forehead creased in a slight, barely-there frown.

"Yeah," he replied uneasily. "Malfoy brought up the bet we made—sorry about that, by the way, but _seriously_, Tom's never so much as _hinted _at being interested in a girl before, and the novelty of watching him eye-fuck you during Potions has yet to really wear off—but anyway—yeah, Malfoy brought up the bet, Tom did his brooding, terrifying silence thing, Malfoy wouldn't let it go, called you a—well, it wasn't nice—and Tom completely fucking _lost it_. Malfoy had barely shut his mouth before Tom had his fist in his face. It was fucking _insane_, Granger, you could literally _hear _Malfoy's nose break, it fucking _crunched_—but—ah—not that you—you probably didn't want to know that part, yeah?"

I winced.

"No, I didn't."

He cleared his throat.

"Right. Sorry. But—what does this have to do with—"

I cut him off.

"Why do you think Tom is so protective of me?"

His back went rigid.

"I'm not sure what you mean," he replied warily.

I scoffed.

"You seem to be operating under the misapprehension that you know anything at all about my relationship with Tom," I drawled. "Which is unfortunate, because—and pay extra close attention to this part, Edmond—_you don't_."

His eyes widened.

"I didn't—" he argued.

"Tom is as much _mine _as I am his," I continued, ignoring his vaguely panicked expression. "I know what he's capable of. I saw the blood on your shirt. I heard about what he did to you. So—do you really think that I'd be sticking around—that I wouldn't have run straight to my _uncle_ after what he told me last night—if I hadn't already _picked a fucking side_?"

His posture was tense, the tendons in his neck pushing up against the paper-thin skin that blanketed his pulse.

But then he grinned.

"Malfoy's going to be _pissed_," he chuckled, moving past me to hold open the classroom door. "So, so, _so _pissed. Come on, though. We really do need to get to class."

Taken aback, I followed him into the hallway.

My hands were trembling.

My lungs felt empty.

_Tom is as much __**mine**__ as I am his_.

Had I even been lying? I couldn't remember. I couldn't tell. Not for sure. And I couldn't fucking remember—

_Mine_. Tom was _mine_.

No.

I hadn't been lying.

We were ten minutes late for class.

OOO

_6:15 pm_

"I need to talk to you."

I looked up from my dinner to find Tom's blank black gaze boring into the top of my head.

"Right now?" I asked, bemused.

He jerked his chin towards the doors that led to the entrance hall.

"Right now, sweetheart," he said with a menacing edge to his voice.

I dropped my fork. It clattered noisily onto my mostly empty plate.

"Fine," I replied, getting to my feet.

He yanked at the strap on my book bag and held it in a tight, white-knuckled fist as we made our way around the Hufflepuff table. My heart rate skipped double-time when I realized that he was angry. He didn't say anything else to me until we were halfway to the Slytherin common room.

"Malfoy's trying to get me expelled."

I blinked in confusion.

"For breaking his nose?"

His nostrils flared.

"For a lot of things," he spat dismissively. "He's fucking joined forces with fucking _Dumbledore_."

I reached for his hand. He let me take it.

"But you're Head Boy," I reminded him. "They're not just going to _expel _you. Especially when the only thing anyone _knows _you've done wrong is hit Abraxas. Which—and there were plenty of witnesses—was hardly your fault. You were _defending_ me."

He stared down at our entwined fingers for what felt like forever. Our footsteps echoed dumbly in the dimly lit dungeon corridor.

"I'm afraid—I'm worried that he's going to talk," he mumbled, almost to himself. "To Dumbledore."

"I don't understand," I replied carefully. "What does Dumbledore have to do with any of this?"

He bared his teeth in a grimace.

"He's been trying to convince Dippet I'm fucking _unstable_—or something equally fucking inane—for years now," he snarled. "When I opened the Chamber—he _knew,_ Hermione, fuck if I know _how_—and he tried—he just didn't have any _proof_, but if Malfoy—Malfoy was _there_, Malfoy could tell him everything, could give him the memories he has of that whole fucking day and—and—and I wouldn't just get expelled, I'd get sent to fucking _Azkaban_, and I can't—that's not—that isn't what's supposed to happen. I can't let it. I _can't_. I won't."

We stopped walking when we got to the soft stone wall that hid the entrance to the common room.

"Abraxas would get in trouble, though, wouldn't he? For not coming forward sooner?"

Tom muttered the password and held open the door for me.

"His father would get him out of it."

I deflated.

"Oh. And you really think that Abraxas would do that to you?"

He stalked towards the boys' dormitories.

"We've never really got on," he replied distantly, dragging me into his room. "He's stupid. And arrogant. And entitled. But he's a _Malfoy_. That _matters_. I figured _that _out a long time ago."

"That isn't what I asked."

He slammed the door so hard that it rattled.

"We've never got on," he said again. His voice was shaking. "But he knew his place. He knew what I could do. He knew what would happen to him if he didn't fucking listen. And since Lestrange and Nott and Avery all knew it, too, he made sure—Malfoy, I mean, Malfoy made sure—that he followed my orders and—and—invited me to fucking _Christmas_ _dinner_ every year. But then _you _showed up."

My heart started to race.

"I don't—"

"They all think you're ruining me," he interrupted hoarsely. "They all—they think that I've lost focus. That I've forgotten what I promised them."

I twisted the end of my tie.

"I know."

He eyed me cautiously.

"How do you know that?"

"Edmond told me." I hesitated. "Although—I don't think that he'll be a problem for you any time soon."

"Oh?"

I straightened my shoulders.

"I might have…said something. To him. About us. Well—about _me_, technically, but—that doesn't matter. Anyway. I said something. After he implied that I wasn't serious about you. About being with you."

He raised his eyebrows.

"You _said _something."

"Yes."

His jaw went slack.

"Something…defensive?" he pressed.

I fidgeted nervously.

"Possibly," I hedged.

His mouth clamped shut.

"Explain," he demanded briskly. "_Now_, sweetheart."

I did—with alacrity.

I explained how we had left the Great Hall with Melania Macmillan's watery brown eyes glued to our departing backs. I explained how I'd asked to see Edmond's arm and how he'd shown me the scar and theorized that Tom had only been using him to get back at Abraxas. I explained how Edmond had told me about Abraxas' assignment with Grindewald. I explained how he had intimated that I couldn't be trusted. I explained how he'd point-blank ordered me to pick a side. I explained how I had responded, and I recited what I had said—

And then Tom took the five steps separating us and cut me off with a bruising, blinding sort of kiss that was absolutely anything but gentle.

"Say it again," he whispered urgently.

"What?" I sputtered.

"What you just said. Say it again. _Please_, Hermione. Just—just say it again."

His hands were curled around the curve of my waist, his fingers digging into my skin—and I was startled to realize that I didn't want him to let go.

"I said—I said that you are just as much mine as I am yours," I said tremulously.

His closed his eyes.

"_Again_."

I bit my lip.

"You're just as much mine as—as I am yours."

He clutched me tighter, his thumbs rubbing up against the underside of my breasts.

"I'm going to kiss you now, Hermione," he informed me. "I'm going to kiss you, and I'm not going to stop."

I whimpered.

"I don't know—"

"Just tell me that's what you want. Tell me you don't want me to stop," he pleaded.

I wanted to say yes.

My skull was crammed with a thousand different thoughts and reasons and arguments and all I could focus on was the insistent chant of _yes yes yes _that had breached my bloodstream and made it impossibly hard to think.

Because I wanted to say yes.

Because I didn't want him to stop.

Because I wanted to lose my fucking virginity to Tom Riddle.

It wasn't going to be how I'd always pictured it. It wasn't going to be perfect and it wasn't going to be with someone I loved and it wasn't going to mean what I wanted it to—but that was fine, it was going to be fine, it was all going to be fine, because that didn't _matter_ anymore, none of it fucking mattered anymore, not when I was with the wrong boy in the wrong time and there was no turning back, there was no going back, and it was going to be fine, it was all going to be fine, it had to be fine—

I trusted him.

I had lied earlier that morning when I had said that I didn't.

I trusted him not to hurt me. I trusted him to keep me safe. I trusted him—

I fucking _trusted _him.

How had I missed that? When had it even happened? Had the change been too gradual, too subtle—practically undetectable in the chaos of _everything else_ that I felt about him? Because there was anger and confusion and disgust and fear and the kind of intensity that transformed every conversation, every look, every _touch_ into the most infuriatingly erotic experience of my life—and how, exactly, had that turned into _trust_?

Had it started the night he'd sent Edmond Lestrange to rescue me? I remembered, vividly, the way he'd placed his jacket around my shoulders, the way he'd run his hands down my arms, soothing me, comforting me, offering himself up as my anchor to a reality that was warm and safe and far, far away from anyone who wanted to hurt me. I remembered the way he'd held me, the way he'd kissed me, as if I might break, as if he wouldn't ever _let me _break, the way his lips and his tongue and his breath had mingled with mine and made everything seem so much fucking _better _than it had been in the moments leading up to him, to us, to the gentle slide of his trousers against the torn silk of my dress.

Or—

Or maybe it had started three weeks later, in the Slytherin common room—maybe it had been the soft swishing sound of my skirt falling to the floor, sweat beading across my skin as a sharp sliver of heat burrowed into my abdomen, my knickers lying in a crumpled heap around my ankles. Maybe it had been his arms around my waist, his mouth on my neck, his laughter rumbling through his chest, aching to escape. Maybe it had been his voice melding deep and languorous into the space beneath my ear, the teasing push of air rustling through my hair and eliciting a quick tremor of satisfaction—maybe it had been the silent walk to my dormitory door, his hand on the small of my back, his gaze locked on my face as he bent down to place a chaste, peculiarly sweet kiss on my forehead.

Except—

No, _no_, it had started before that, it had to have, it had started the first night we'd met, when he was waiting for me outside of Dumbledore's office, when he'd recited facts and names and dates straight from _Hogwarts, A History_ and I'd realized, even if I couldn't admit it then, even if I couldn't verbalize it just yet—I'd realized that there was someone else who had felt alone enough in a new place, a new _world_, to memorize all twelve hundred pages of that stupid stupid _stupid _fucking book—

"_Hermione_," he said, breaking into my reverie.

I blinked at him. His expression was troubled. He reached forward slowly, as if he was afraid to startle me, and dragged his thumb across my cheek. It came back wet. I was strangely unsurprised to discover that I'd been crying.

"I want—" I started to say. But then I stopped. I couldn't finish that sentence. I didn't know how to.

I wanted to say yes.

I wanted to go home.

I wanted to see Ron and Harry. I wanted to be eleven again, before I'd gotten my Hogwarts letter, before I'd been introduced to magic—before I learned what it meant to be a mudblood, before I learned what it meant to watch my best friend be used and manipulated by the man we were all supposed to trust unconditionally, the man who assured us that a sixteen year-old boy could be our savior and then neglected to mention the part about him having to _die_ in order to do so—before I figured out that right and wrong weren't the only options, before I'd had to grow up too soon, too early, too _much_—before I'd dueled with Bellatrix Lestrange and let her chase me through a battle-torn hallway and decided, wildly, impetuously, that the only option I had was to destroy the last remaining time turner—

I cringed at the memory.

I had been afraid. I had been so fucking afraid. I had been afraid, and I had made the wrong choice. Why was that so difficult to admit?

I wanted to say yes.

I studied Tom's face. I didn't know how he felt. Not really. He _wanted _me, of course—sexually, physically…emotionally, too, if his recent foray into secret-sharing was any indication. But he was _damaged_. I wasn't sure if it was relevant that he had a troubled childhood and an absentee—now dead—father and a plethora of complex, wholly disturbing abandonment issues—was there anything even close to an acceptable excuse for the things he would end up doing? The things he'd _already _done? Murder and violence and a distressing disregard for human life—were those things _justifiable_?

But I trusted him.

What did that say about me? Was it a coping mechanism? Survival instinct? Was it something leftover from evolution—some inexplicable primal impulse to latch onto the strongest, the smartest, the most cunning?

He treated me differently than he treated anyone else. I wasn't so blinded by my own version of prejudice to not see that. He was tender—almost reverent—when we touched. He was indulgent when I tried to argue with him. But it was the way that he didn't _expect _anything from me—the way that he looked genuinely surprised when I smiled or laughed or kissed his cheek without provocation—that made my heart ache with the understanding that there had never been a time before me when he hadn't been alone.

But I trusted him.

And that was important, even if I couldn't articulate why.

"What?" he asked. "What do you want, Hermione?"

I licked my lips.

"I want _you_," I said clearly, glancing up at him through my lashes. "I want—I want _you_."

He froze. His eyes were struck wide open, his pupils dilated, every muscle in his body poised and tensed and locked in place—it was odd, I thought, how completely _still _he was, how very much control he was exerting, how bizarrely fucking _brittle_ he looked—and I badly, _badly_ wanted to reach out and _touch him_, just to see if he would shatter, just to see if he would move, just to see if the feel of my skin on his was enough to break him out of the preternatural trance he'd gone into.

"You mean—" he broke off. He loosened his tie. "Do you mean what I think you mean?"

I let out a breathy little laugh and smiled at him.

"I want _you_," I said again, deliberately repeating myself, and the words were like a catalyst to some long-suppressed sense of _belonging_ and contentment and the realization that I was finally doing something _right_—I felt lighter, the ever-present weight of dread that I'd grown accustomed to having drifted up and off, leaving me with nothing but a slick, heady clench of anticipation deep in my gut—because I _wanted _him, I did, and that was okay.

He was going to make it okay.

I trusted him.

"Are you sure?" he asked thickly.

I picked up one of his hands and laced my fingers through his. I wondered if this is what falling in love felt like. I wondered if we had been different, if _he _had been different, if this moment would have been the same. If he would still be staring at me as if I wasn't real, as if he couldn't quite let himself _believe _that I was real—and it occurred to me, then, that I might have been looking at him the exact same way, memorizing the symmetry of his features and the feral glint in his eyes and hoping that I would never, _ever_ forget how desperately I wanted him to kiss me—

"I'm sure."

He squeezed my hand.

And then he leaned forward, his gaze intent, and brushed his lips against each of my cheeks, one after the other, and then my nose, my chin, my forehead—it was unbearably intimate, and I felt my throat contract around a sound that might have been a sob when he pulled back.

"I'm not going to ask you why," he said, his voice strangely loud in the ensuing silence. "But—I need to—I need you to promise me that you won't regret this. That you won't regret _me_."

My eyes fluttered shut.

"I promise."

I heard him move—and our thighs were suddenly pressed together and his body was warm and solid as he wrapped his arms around my shoulders and eased me down onto the bed—and then his lips were on mine and his tongue was coaxing my mouth open, _open_, and he tasted like toothpaste and tea and home and _mine _and I spared a quick half-second to mentally catalogue the fact that kissing him was an activity that only seemed to ever get _better_ and _fuck_ but I never wanted to stop, not even when we ran out of oxygen and air and time and _needed _to fucking stop—

He splayed his hands out on either side of the pillow my head was resting on and nestled his hips between my thighs. His erection rubbed insistently at the damp spot on my knickers. When he groaned, I felt the vibration pulse through my nervous system. It tingled. I wanted more. I wanted so much more.

"Your shirt—" he said while clawing at the neat row of buttons dotting the front of my oxford. "_Off_. Now."

I sat up, shrugging off the offending garment. He threw it across the room.

"Just my shirt?" I teased, nimbly working at the buttons on his own shirt.

"No, but—" he began. I gasped as his fingertips skimmed the lace at the edge of my bra. My nipples tightened. "I'm told that enthusiastic foreplay is advisable—_Christ_, _sweetheart, you're fucking gorgeous like this_—for engendering an enjoyable first encounter—_your tits are fucking perfect, __**fuck**__, Hermione, __**fuck**_—for all involved parties—"

His shirt and tie disappeared. My bra was unclasped and lying at the foot of the bed. And then my skirt and my knickers and his trousers were gone and we were both naked and his cock was hard and thick and heavy against my inner thigh and I was wet, so fucking wet, and he was pushing two fingers inside of me, his breathing labored and disbelieving and there was something so fucking _endearing _about the way he gulped down his nervousness, his insecurities, because I remembered, then, that he had never done this before, had no idea what he was even doing—and so I wrapped my hand around his unoccupied wrist and brought it up to my mouth and pressed a fleeting, feather-light kiss against his palm and then I fucking _keened _when he twisted his fingers and swirled his tongue around my nipple—

"You're so fucking wet," he muttered desperately. "I don't—I can't wait, sweetheart—are you ready? Please, _please_ be ready."

I couldn't respond, not when he removed his fingers and I felt their loss so fucking _intensely _that I could have cried—but then he was positioning himself between my legs, spreading them wide, rubbing the head of his cock against my clit, up and down, up and down, and then he was pushing in, slowly, carefully, the muscles in his arms bunched up and solid as he held himself over me.

"Just do it," I managed to whisper.

His eyes found mine.

My lips parted.

He surged forward.

There was pain.

I'd expected it—known it was coming—but I hadn't anticipated that there would be sensations _other_ than pain, not at first.

Because I felt stretched. I felt full. I felt hot and cold and _good _and when he started to move—shallow, irregular thrusts that sent tiny sparks of pleasure up and down my spine—I thought that I might understand why boys like Abraxas chased this, chased this feeling of _yes_ and _more_ and _please_ and _right now_—it was addicting, practically poisonous, and as the tip of his cock bumped up against my cervix I had to gasp because that was _it_, that was as far and as deep as anyone would ever get to go and he fit fucking _perfectly_,like he was meant to be there, meant to be inside of me, and even though the pressure and the friction and the near-constant thrum of blood pumping too fast and rough and relentless into my heart was enough to make me squirm—it wasn't enough to stop the litany of _oh God please more Tom please Tom Tom yes fuck yes you feel so good so good so good Tom yes God more yes please __**Tom**__—_and if he bit down on my neck every time I said his name, leaving a bruise, a mark, evidence of what we were doing and what I was saying and what it all fucking meant to him—I would never bring it up. I would never remind him.

I lifted my hips, wrapped my legs around his waist, and suddenly the angle was different and the ridge of skin underneath the head of his cock was catching on something soft and spongy and fucking _wonderful _inside of me and I was close, so close to being done and gone and if I could just—if he would just—

He snaked a hand over my breasts, pinching my nipples and releasing a broken moan when I hissed and dug my heels into his lower back, urging him forward. He rocked his hips, his pelvis rolling against mine, and reached between us, right above where we were joined, his thumb grazing my clit.

My body tensed.

My muscles fluttered.

And then—

He circled my clit again and again and again, and I fancied that I could feel every groove and whorl and crest in the skin of his hands, could map out his fucking _fingerprints_ if I had to, I could, because what was happening—all at once, this hadn't built up slowly or purposefully or in any way other than _rapidly_—what was happening was so physical and so raw and so fucking animalistic that I just knew—I just fucking _knew_—that every last cell in my body was involved and connected and this wasn't just a fucking orgasm it couldn't just be a fucking orgasm because I couldn't help it and I couldn't breathe and I couldn't stop the flood of certainty that it would never have been like this—was never going to be like this again—not with anyone else, _never with anyone else_—

I cried out when I came, an unintelligible blur of syllables that might have turned into words if I'd had the presence of mind to think about them.

But I didn't, I didn't have the presence of mind, because he was still moving, coasting me through the involuntary shuddering and twitching and breathless mewling, and when I had finally relaxed enough to go boneless and limp he had hitched my knees up with his forearms and snapped his hips and then he was _pounding _into me, a dull dark flush creeping across his chest as he spoke to me, about me—_so tight so wet I can't believe fuck fuck Hermione you're perfect we're perfect this is perfect I can't stop I'm never fucking stopping your cunt fuck 'Mione your cunt is like fucking heaven_—and his tongue was lapping at the spot between my collarbones—_fuck so good so mine you're mine Hermione please you're so beautiful don't go Hermione stay stay forever please fuck __**Hermione**__—_and his already frenetic pace turned something that felt a lot like _violent _as he screwed his eyes shut—_I can't I'm sorry I can't you're perfect so fucking perfect don't go don't go don't go fuck sweetheart so tight so good I can't I'm sorry I'm so close so fucking close sweetheart_—and then he was licking a filthy wet stripe up the side of my throat and his teeth were latching onto my earlobe and—_yes yes fuck I'm going to I'm going to sweetheart I'm going to fucking come please I'm fucking yes 'Mione yes I'm coming I'm coming I'm coming_—

He collapsed afterwards.

I made sure that I caught him.

OOO

I woke up several hours later with my head tucked into the curve of his shoulder and his arms around my waist. I was sore. My thighs were sticky. I felt happy.

"Tom?" I asked sleepily. "What time is it?"

He jerked awake at the sound of my voice.

"I—what?" he mumbled, yawning. "Where's m'watch?"

I planted a somewhat sloppy kiss on the base of his jaw and reached around him for better access to his nightstand.

"It's a bit after nine," I reported. "I need to get out of here. God only knows what your roommates think."

"Luckily none of them are really all that capable of thinking, then," he replied drolly. "We're probably safe."

I giggled before I could remind myself not to.

"_Anyway_," I sighed. "I should go."

He rubbed his eyes.

"Yeah. Hold on. I'll walk you."

"No, baby," I murmured into his neck, rolling over him. "_Sleep_. I can get to my dormitory by myself. You realize that it's just on the other side of the common room, don't you?"

He snorted a laugh and ran his hand down the exposed skin of my back.

"That isn't the point."

I began to search the foot of the bed for my discarded undergarments.

"I know _that_," I replied. "And normally I find your determination to be a gentleman completely adorable—but you're exhausted. You need to rest. And I can't stay here all night."

He huffed indignantly.

"Why not?"

I slid on my knickers and stood up.

"Because," I explained patiently, "Melania would use my overnight absence as indisputable proof of my moral depravity and go straight to Slughorn. _God_. He'd have us married by Christmas."

He didn't respond. I stepped into my skirt. And then—

"Would that be so bad?"

I froze. My skirt stayed bunched around my knees, unzipped and scratchy.

"Would—_what_?"

I heard him swallow.

"Well—you're stuck here. In this time. And you've thought about it, haven't you? What that means? Surely you want to eventually make a life for yourself. Get married. Have ch—children. Don't you?"

I turned to face him, nonplussed.

"Are you _proposing_?"

He didn't look away.

"Not exactly."

"Really? Because that's sort of what it sounds like."

He sat up. The sheet that had been covering his naked torso slid to his hips, exposing the enticingly straight line of wiry dark hair that started at his navel and continued down, further down, leading to—

I very resolutely did not blush.

"I'm just saying—wrong time or not, you still have a future to think about," he said reasonably.

I gaped.

"Is this a _thing_ in 1944? Asking girls to marry you after a few weeks of—oh, my God, not _even _a few weeks, I've barely even been civil to you for three whole _days_—but—_I'm seventeen_, Tom, and where I come from, marriage isn't something that you think about with any degree of seriousness at _seventeen—_"

"Calm down, sweetheart," he interrupted, settling back against his headboard. "I know how old you are. But you're supposed to be a Pureblood. They do things differently. Even _Macmillan_ will probably be married off within the year. And—if you're still—still here, marriage is something that will be expected of you."

I tugged my shirt over my head.

"And you're—what—_volunteering_?"

He smirked.

"I know who you are. I know where you're from. You wouldn't have to _hide_ anything from me. I'm told that that's a good foundation for a relationship. It helps, of course, that I find you…tolerable, and I like to think that the feeling is mutual, despite the—ah—_complications_ of our association in the future. So—I'll ask you again. Would being married to me really be that bad?"

I fell back onto his bed in a daze.

"I can't believe—" I paused and shook my head. "No, actually—I _can _believe that this is happening. This is my life now. This is what happens in my life."

He coughed. I didn't move.

"Come on," he said tentatively. "Let's get you back to your room. I'll walk you."

He swung his legs over the side of the mattress. I stopped him.

"If I find out—definitively, I mean—that I can't ever go home," I said, practically fucking _choking _on the acrid sour bitter flavor of the words, "I'll show you. I'll show you what you turn into in—where I come from. If I'm stuck here—well, if I'm stuck here, preserving the timeline would kind of be a pointless endeavor _anyway_, so—I'll show you, I'll show you who you are, and after you see—you can ask me about being married to you. You can ask me if it would really be so bad."

His mouth snapped shut. The sound of his teeth clacking together was sharp and harsh and made me think that I should have been scared.

I wasn't.

"Fine."

I finished getting dressed. We both ignored the faint smear of blood on the inside of my thighs.

"I should go," I said awkwardly, hovering by the door.

He was still sitting on the edge of his bed, shirtless, head bowed, elbows resting on his knees—I felt my chest tighten at the sight.

"I should walk you," he replied half-heartedly.

He didn't get up. I couldn't—

"_Tom_," I said helplessly. "I'm—I sometimes wish—I sometimes wish that things were different. That I hadn't ever…known who you were before I came here. That we could have had a proper beginning. I want—I just want you to know that."

His expression didn't change.

"Is that what this was?" he asked with an unsettling amount of indifference.

"What?"

"Sleeping with me," he clarified tonelessly. "Is that what this was for you? A way to pretend that things were different?"

His accusation—because as politely as he phrased it, that's exactly what it was, it was a fucking _accusation_—tumbled through the air and hit me like a sucker-punch to the kidney. It hurt. It burned. But that wasn't the bad part, the worst part—no, no, the worst part was that he was _right_.

"You should go," he said after several seconds of silence. "I'll see you in the morning, Hermione."

I flinched at the obvious dismissal.

"Right. I'll just—" I turned the doorknob. "—go, I suppose. And—see you tomorrow. Right."

He didn't look at me again. I slipped out the door. I ran down the hallway. I needed—I needed to not think about how ashamed I felt. I needed to not question what that meant. I needed to get to my room and put on my pajamas and maybe have a glass of water—but I didn't need to think about Tom Riddle. Not tonight. Not anymore.

The lights were off in the seventh-year girls' dormitory. Melania wasn't there. However—her bed was rumpled, her sheets peeled back as if someone had recently been sleeping there. The bathroom door was cracked open. I felt a vague prickle of unease until I heard running water.

She was taking a shower.

Relieved, I turned towards my own bed, wincing when I felt a dull ache between my legs. I kicked off my shoes. I fluffed my pillows. I bent down to retrieve a pair of pajamas from the bottom of my trunk. I stood back up.

And then I noticed the shadow.

It was big.

It was behind me.

It didn't belong.

It didn't belong.

It didn't belong.

A hand clapped over my mouth. I tasted dirt and grease and something earthy—something that might have been grass. The scent of cheap soap and antiseptic cream lingered in my nostrils.

"Hello, kitten," a familiar voice purred darkly.

I didn't scream.

I thought of Tom.

I didn't feel anything when the world finally went black.

OOO

**Author's Note**: So…I hate myself a little bit for that cliffhanger, but it was necessary. Plus, I totally made it up to all of you by _finally _giving you a lemon. A good one. A _detailed _one. I was aiming for a little bit less of the heated physicality that's accompanied the rest of their, um, _intimate encounters_—it was important to me that Hermione at least make an _effort_, even introspectively, to understand Tom's myriad emotional deficiencies before she gave up her virginity, especially since the last few chapters she's been kind of a bitch about the whole thing, but—what can you do? Anyway. I hope it lived up to all of your expectations. I was pretty happy with it once it was done, but I'm biased. Sort of. (Seriously, though, I agonized for _ages _over how to approach this scene—I felt like it was so poignant for so many reasons that I had to figure out some way of making it as multifaceted as possible without getting distracted—I'd actually really like to know what some of you thought about it, just in the context of the rest of the story, because there were some things about Hermione's character that I was really trying very hard to address and I'm curious about whether or not I managed to do that.)

xoxo Andrea

OOO


	16. XV

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Hello! I'm sorry this took _forever _to get up. I've been working on something new—and unrelated to fan fiction—and I kept putting this off because I am a terrible human being with a super unreliable creative process. But this is officially the halfway point for this story, I think, so…there's that. Well—maybe slightly more than halfway. I still have to figure out the pacing for the crazy epic climax you're all in store for. There's a pretty serious new development in this chapter—I dropped a glaringly obvious hint about it, too, which made my inner Agatha Christie curl up and cry, but, whatever. Elaborate mysteries are not my thing. I prefer angst and tension and copious amounts of emotional mind-fuckery. That may or may not be a commentary on my personality. I don't even know. I'm so tired, guys. I just can't. SO TIRED. And I'm not really allowed that much caffeine so I just keep eating chocolate and can we seriously talk about how not fair it is that I have a medical professional YELLING AT ME once a week for not gaining weight fast enough? Seriously? Who does that? I have consumed more carbs in the past three months than I have in the past _ten years combined_. I am FOR REAL doing my part on the weight-gain front. It is not my fault that there are two fetuses living in my womb that are apparently hell-bent on depriving me of nutrients.

God, I am so done. I ramble literally 80% more now that I'm pregnant. Is that a thing? I'm pretty sure it's a thing. And if it isn't, I'm totally making it one.

I promise to stop complaining, though. Soon. Maybe. Also—I apologize to anyone following me on Tumblr. I have been crazy neglectful of my blog and my followers and it's not personal, I swear, it's just the flashing gif's on my dash trigger my morning sickness, so signing IN to Tumblr is, like, the last thing I ever want to do. It's depressing. I'll work on it. I have so many unanswered asks that I don't even know where to start. I TOLD YOU ALL I WAS AWFUL AT HUMAN INTERACTION. I TOTALLY WARNED YOU.

Anyway! Moving on. For the sake of continuity, we're saying that Tom wrote the journal entry that appears at the beginning of this chapter immediately after Hermione left his room. I had a minor freak-out about whether or not to include it, but it ended up being semi-important since it provided a really obvious plot device that will segue nicely into the beginning of the next chapter, so…I just hope it isn't confusing.

One more thing, before I leave you all alone. I've been getting some scary threats from some people about the ratings policy for this site and how parts of this story don't adhere to them—and one of you suggested I post this on AO3, just to be safe, and even though I got an invite there last month and begrudgingly set up an account I haven't actually USED it yet—and I guess I'm mostly wondering if it's even worth it? I really don't want this to get taken down, but I've never posted stories anywhere else before and I feel like there's this whole other fan fiction world out there that I know nothing about and it's like being the awkward new girl in school, you know? Plus, double-posting on another archive seems kind of…obnoxious, but it might be a thing that normal people do, I don't really know, so—

SOMEONE TELL ME WHAT TO DO. I AM USELESS AT DECISION MAKING.

xoxo Andrea

OOO

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

_October 19, 1944_

_ She just left._

_ Again._

_**Fuck**__._

_ I don't know what—_

_ She's so fucking __**volatile**__. I have found that keeping up with her emotions is next to impossible—she cannot seem to decide if she trusts me or not, likes me or not, wants me around or not. And at the risk of sounding childish, I confess that her constant vacillation is…__**upsetting**__. She blames me for things that I have yet to even __**do**__—things that I have no knowledge of; things that I'm half-afraid might actually be real, because why would she bother to lie about them? And I can't—is that fixable? It certainly isn't rational. But the __**truly**__ confusing part is that despite her reticence, I suspect that she's __**aware **__of how unfair her behavior is. She just doesn't __**care**__._

_ And she—_

_ She let me fuck her._

_ No. __**No**__._

_ That doesn't sound quite right. _

_We made love?_

_**God**__. _

_That's even worse._

_ We had sex. We fucked. And her cunt—_

_Her cunt—_

_She felt so good, warm and welcoming and wet, and I was so terrified of hurting her—Malfoy always said that it's miserable for virgins, that they usually cry—but she didn't ask me to stop, she didn't look particularly uncomfortable, and she was so fucking __**tight**__, she fit my cock like a glove, like I was meant to be there, and when she __**came**__ it was even better, __**unbearably**__ better—the way she whispered my name, over and over, again and again, spliced with gasps and moans and a tacit sort of acknowledgement that everything she was feeling was because of __**me**__, wouldn't have been possible without __**me**__, without my body connected to hers, without my breath in her mouth—_

_ It was bliss. Almost as good as finding out what she said to Lestrange after I left them alone. _

_I never imagined that I would have any interest in being __**claimed **__by someone. Not romantically. I am effusively protective of my own possessions, of course, and I have come to terms with the fact that I've considered Hermione to be __**mine**__ since the very first night she arrived. But—hearing her reciprocate, hearing her express an identical sentiment out loud—I am __**hers**__, she wants to __**have me**__, she wants to __**own me**__, she wants to __**take**__ from me what I've taken from her—_

_God. _

_Phrased like that, it shouldn't be such an attractive proposition, should it? Especially now that I know the extent of how willfully she's choosing to not understand what it all means._

_But—_

_No one has ever __**wanted **__me like that—not all of me. No one has ever tried—ever __**dared**__—to even make an attempt. It is refreshing and unsettling and I wish—_

_I wish—_

_It was good of Lestrange to tell her about Malfoy's assignment with Grindewald. I thought he might wait a bit longer, but with Malfoy doing a rather excellent impression of a self-sacrificial lamb as of late—well. I have yet to determine if he's acting under his father's direction or not. The ring that he so clumsily foisted on Hermione last month still troubles me—because it means that he knew (__**someone**__ knew) that she would have no idea what it was. However—I absolutely refuse to accept that there is a functioning brain underneath the ever-present stench of sweat and quidditch leather and good-natured indecision. The only subject in which he has ever shown any interest is sex—and God __**knows**__ that a troubling lack of intelligence is __**not**__ a disqualifier for that particular act. The sheer number of Hufflepuffs I routinely find in the Astronomy Tower after curfew is evidence of __**that**__. (Hermione accused me of underestimating him. Her credibility is somewhat shoddy—he is a petty, spoiled, vindictive __**idiot**__, and if anything, I am __**overestimating **__his talents.)_

_Regardless—_

_ Lestrange thinks that I should tell her everything. That she could help us—that she could help __**me**__. He seems to trust her, which I don't have a problem with—__**in theory**__. It's just that—I am fascinated by her. I know that. I am fascinated by where she comes from and what she knows and the way that her expression drifts into the realm of fond nostalgia whenever she walks past the library. I am fascinated by her eyes—caramel, her eyes have always reminded me of caramel—and her smile and the contradictory nature of her personality—she argues incessantly and she's so obviously afraid of so very many things and she's simultaneously the cleverest and most naïve girl I have ever met—I am fascinated by her, by all of her, and that makes her dangerous. Because she has __**power **__over me, she could ask me for anything, for everything—I wouldn't even hesitate before I said yes. I would never even __**think **__to fucking hesitate._

_ I wonder if she knows that. I wonder if—_

_ When Lestrange initially proposed that he be the one to drop casual, gradual hints about what we—__**I**__—have planned, I was skeptical. There is no discernible benefit to including her. At best, her relationship with Dumbledore is strained and awkward—she would be useless as a spy, even if she weren't such an abysmal liar. Lestrange then suggested using Malfoy's fixation with her against him—as if watching me kiss her over a plate of blood pudding would be the thing to set him off enough to make a stupid mistake of the caliber necessary to dispose of him. But as amusing as it might to be bait him—she did, after all, pick __**me**__, fuck __**me**__, kiss __**me **__back—I cannot forget that he is significantly more valuable than Lestrange will ever be. Which means that as much as Lestrange wants to be the one to go to Grindewald, to set everything in motion—as much as he thinks he can manipulate me and Malfoy and even Hermione into giving him that—his ambition is just further proof that he is moronically, erratically, disappointingly stubborn. (How many times have I told him that he has approximately fifty too many close relatives in the south of France to ever even consider the possibility of adequately blending in? The Malfoys are older, more inbred, and far less fertile. There are simply not enough of them __**left **__to give any credence to the inevitable rumors of familial mutiny that will arise after Grindewald takes him on. It's basic fucking __**mathematics**__.)_

_ Of course, that will all be irrelevant if it turns out that Malfoy's loyalty is as…__**faulty**__ as I'm beginning to suspect. If he's already gone to Dumbledore—_

_ No._

_ I would know._

_ It might not hurt, however, to speak with Slughorn. Just to—just for insurance. Just in case. Yes. Just in case. Tomorrow—_

_ There is blood on my bed._

_ Not very much—a small spot, really—but it is __**hers**__ and it's mixed with my cum and it's still __**damp**__ and I can't quite bring myself to call for an elf to change the sheets—_

_**Fuck**__._

_ My cum—_

_ Oh, God._

_ Bloody fucking—_

_ I didn't pull out. _

_ Malfoy always said—_

_ I didn't pull out._

_ She could have gotten pregnant. I could have gotten her pregnant. I can't—_

_ I didn't pull out. How did I—_

_ Would she stay? If she was? Would she still try to go home? Would she still __**want **__to go home?_

_ I couldn't have—_

_**Fuck**__._

_ She could have gotten pregnant. I could have gotten her pregnant. This is not—_

_ How did I forget? How could I have forgotten? Malfoy __**always said**__—_

_ I didn't pull out. I didn't remember to pull out._

_ If she is pregnant, she would have to marry me. Dumbledore would have to make her. __**Dippet **__would have to make her. The scandal would be atrocious, otherwise. And if we were married—if we had a __**child**__—she wouldn't leave. She isn't like them. She isn't them. She would stay. She would stay, and she would show me the future, show me what I become, and—she would have a reason to stay._

_ I would be a father._

_ I wouldn't be him. I wouldn't be like him. Would I? It isn't as if I know any better. And if Hermione wasn't there—_

_ I never wanted her. I didn't prepare for her. She—it—__**this**__—didn't factor into __**anything**__ that I planned. __**She was not supposed to happen. **__She should not even be here. She belongs to a place that is fifty years outside of the scope of my reality—she doesn't fit, she doesn't belong, she doesn't make sense, and—_

_ She would stay. I know she would stay. She would stay with me. She isn't them. She's nothing like them. She—_

_ I am being irrational. She more than likely __**isn't**__ going to be pregnant. It's statistically improbable—we've only fucked once, and if I just remember to pull out next time—if there__** is**__ a next time—it will be fine. It will be fine. It will not happen again. Because there is literally no excuse for impregnating a fucking __**time traveler**__ that doesn't reek of irresponsibility, is there?_

_ Except—_

_ She would stay. She would stay here, with me, and I—_

_**Fuck.**_

_ I need to see her. I need to talk to her. There must be something—a spell—_

_ She would stay._

_ She would stay._

_ She didn't notice that I didn't pull out. Or—it didn't register. She didn't say anything. Was it subconscious? Will she blame me, when she realizes? Will she assume that I'm trying to trap her?_

_ She would stay. _

_ I should find her. I should tell her—there's a potion, I think—we could stop it—_

_ She would stay._

_ I can't—_

_ I want her to stay._

_-TMR_

OOO

I woke up in a bed.

I laid still for several minutes, trying to let the rhythmic sound of my heartbeat drown out the overwhelming pain in my head. I felt dizzy and disoriented and dehydrated. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know how much time had passed.

I opened my eyes slowly.

I was in what appeared to be an opulent, well-appointed residential guest room. The top halves of the walls were painted a delicate sky blue while the bottoms were covered in plain white wainscoting. The bed I was lying in was an enormous mahogany four-poster—the mattress was thick and comfortable, the navy sheets silky smooth, and the pillows soft and inviting. There was a large, gilt-framed painting of a serpent eating a red apple hanging on the wall opposite the bed. There were no clues as to where I was or who the room belonged to. I was still wearing my school uniform.

I licked my lips and forced myself to assess the situation.

I was alone. I had been taken—by _whom_, though? There had been a voice—_hello, kitten_—and the sterile smell of a hospital. It had been a man. I had known him, I was sure of it, but I _couldn't fucking remember_. It was as if my memory had been altered, but so very neatly and efficiently that the only blank spot I could really focus on was the _identity_ of my kidnapper. Everything else was still there. I could recall with crystal-clear precision the faint tug of aching muscles between my thighs, the feel of rough flannel pajamas balled in my hands, the sound of running water in the background; paper-thin wisps of steam had floated out from the bathroom, leaving the air heavy and humid, and the shadow that had popped up behind me had been large, broad-shouldered and bulky, with a voice that I'd heard before, had fucking _recognized_. I remembered recognizing it. I remembered being surprised. I remembered wishing that Tom was there to save me. But the space between those very disparate thoughts was empty.

Someone had skillfully tampered with my memories, that much was obvious, and they had done it while I was _unconscious_. I wondered, with a clinical sort of detachment, if that was why my head hurt so much. I decided that it didn't matter. Because I needed to get out of wherever I was. They had taken my wand, and there weren't any windows, but there was a door—_a door that's probably fucking locked, Hermione_, I inwardly scoffed—and doors meant _exits_ and exits meant _escape routes_—

I crawled out of the bed and stepped gingerly onto an expensive-looking Persian rug. My shoes were missing. I tried to recall if I'd even been wearing them when I had been attacked. I thought that I might have been. Shaking my head, I walked towards the door and tried doorknob.

It opened.

And someone was standing on the other side—a _tall_ someone with shoulder-length ash blond hair and laugh lines around his generously proportioned mouth—

I screamed, leapt backwards, and flailed my arms.

"Hermione Granger, yes?" the stranger inquired, moving into the room and shutting the door behind him. He was wearing a crimson velvet smoking jacket, belted at the waist, and loose-fitting black trousers. He seemed pleasant. I was reminded of the night I'd been introduced to Tom, pictured polite smiles and perfunctory handshakes and I suddenly wanted to retch.

"How do you know my name?" I blurted out.

He winced apologetically.

"Oh, my darling girl—forgive me, you must be terribly confused, waking up in a strange place like this—here, take a seat, let me explain," he said, herding me back towards the bed before pulling up an emerald-green upholstered wingback chair.

"Where am I?" I asked warily.

"I cannot tell you that, unfortunately," he replied. "But it is immaterial. You'll be back at Hogwarts shortly."

I swallowed.

"Why am I here, then?"

"Before I answer _that_—please, allow me to introduce myself," he said warmly. "My name is Gellert Grindewald, and I am so very _pleased _to finally be meeting you, kitten. This is all very exciting, isn't it?"

I was stunned into silence.

"_Oh, my God_."

He regarded me with amusement.

"Indeed," he said. "And I really _am _sorry about the way you arrived, dearest—I can have someone fetch you a potion for your headache if you find the pain unbearable—but it was _imperative _that I have a chat with you as soon as possible, you understand. It isn't every day you come across a _time traveler_."

I froze.

"Seriously?" I bleated. "How is everyone just _guessing _that?"

He settled back in his chair.

"Oh, princess—that story about your past that you allowed Albus to bandy about? It was _criminally _ridiculous," he said. "A long-lost niece? Educated in France? It's a testament to poor Armando's incompetence that you were even allowed inside Hogwarts—_really_, darling, security there is _horrifyingly _lax. By comparison, Durmstrang is a veritable _fortress_. Impregnable. Impenetrable. _Et cetera_."

I stared at him, bemused.

"Nowhere in that response did you address the part about _time travel _being a viable contender for the role of reasonable explanation," I snapped.

He chuckled indulgently.

"Albus sent me letters," he replied with a flippant wave of his hand. "Endless inquiries about how I've been faring in my time turner research. The man is _anything_ but subtle; I don't care what his reputation is. I mean, _honestly_—it's almost as if he _wanted _me to figure the two of you out."

I furrowed my brow, understanding his implication.

"He's using me to get you out of hiding, isn't he?"

"Attempting to, my darling girl," he said, tapping the side of his nose. "_Attempting _to."

"He was expecting you to take me," I continued, my stomach rolling. _This was not happening. _"He was expecting you to take me, and he's expecting you to _keep _me—he wants an excuse to track you down, to—to _fight you_. Oh, my God. That's why—people would understand, wouldn't they? If I was his niece. If I was family. They would look the other way if he—instead of just capturing you—if he—"

"Killed me?" he supplied helpfully. "Indeed, precious. _Indeed_."

I narrowed my eyes.

"But you aren't worried about him," I surmised, twisting the hem of my skirt as I clenched my hands into fists. "Why? He's quite powerful. And rumor has it that despite your…_history_—or maybe because of it?—you're rather frightened of him."

He released an unnerving bark of laughter.

"_Frightened_?" he echoed. "Of _Albus_? Oh, kitten, _no_. Albus is so many different kinds of harmless I wouldn't even know where to begin cataloguing them all. No. No, no, no."

He didn't elaborate—and I didn't say anything, not for several seconds, not as I listened to my thoughts spin themselves around, weaving and crossing and tangling, frayed edges suddenly mended, split ends suddenly whole—because the first kidnapping attempt had not been ordered by Grindewald. He had not cared about me, not then, not even with Dumbledore's very public acknowledgement of my existence. Which could only mean—

"Tom," I whispered, my gaze sharpening. "You—you want Tom. You aren't frightened of Dumbledore because you _are _frightened of Tom."

He appraised me thoughtfully.

"You are more intelligent than I was led to believe," he remarked. "Clever of you, actually, to hide that. I'm assuming that the boy—the boy that you've been dating since late September—is aware of your deception?"

I dug my fingernails into the fleshy part of my palm. It hurt.

"You know his name," I said crisply. "And you know about my relationship with him. Otherwise I wouldn't be here. What do you want?"

"Oh, my darling girl—while it is unerringly sweet of you to think that you are in a position to give me _any_ of the things that I want, you must realize by now that you are operating under a _truly remarkable_ delusion," he purred.

I straightened my spine.

"And yet…here I am," I ground out.

He grinned.

"Here you are," he replied, nodding sagely.

I clenched my jaw hard enough for the bones to creak.

"Are you planning on returning me to the castle before breakfast? I have a very protective boyfriend, in case you didn't know," I said. "He goes to rather a lot of trouble to make sure that I'm safe. He's also a _Parselmouth_, with unlimited access to a _basilisk_. _Truly remarkable_, wouldn't you say?"

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. His teeth gleamed white and luminescent and fucking _predatory _in the shadows.

"I _would_, princess," he replied easily. "I would, indeed. Which is _fascinating_, isn't it? Considering his background?"

The first stirrings of panic began to swell in my chest.

"I'm not sure what you mean," I lied.

"Come now, darling, don't pretend you don't _know_."

My tonsils felt huge and raw and cumbersome in the back of my throat. I could not breathe.

"Know what?"

He picked a nonexistent piece of lint off of the front of his jacket.

"Why, know that your boyfriend—the Parselmouth, precious, you know the one I mean—is a tragic little orphan. Who, by some twisted genetic miracle, is also the only living descendent of Salazar Slytherin. Oh," he added offhandedly, "as well as a half-blood. _That's _actually the important part of all of this, darling. I don't imagine that those boys he coerced into following him around would take too well to that particular revelation, however. What do you think?"

I stared at him, at his smug, seemingly benign smile—and I wondered what I was supposed to do. Oxygen was no longer a primary concern. The burning expansion of my lungs didn't matter and the rapid seizing of my blood vessels was a nonentity—I was angry, I was furious, I was helpless and desperate and fucking _wrecked_ with rage because he was threatening _Tom_, my Tom, the Tom who couldn't help where he'd come from and who had abandoned him, the Tom who didn't believe that he could ever grow up to hurt me—and oh, oh _God, _I couldn't let him do it, I had to think, I had to think, I had to fix this and I had to fix Tom and—

"I think that you're severely underestimating their loyalty to him," I said thickly.

He cocked his head to the side.

"He uses them as punching bags and butchers' blocks, princess," he cooed. "As a fellow leader of men, I can assure you that that is _not _the sort of behavior that tends to garner respect and long-term commitment."

I went still.

"Butchers' blocks?" I asked carefully.

His smile widened.

"You didn't hear? About the French boy—oh, you must know him, kitten, he's a bit _weedy_, with short dark hair—one of the Lestranges, isn't he?"

My brain stuttered. How did he _know_—

"Edmond, yes," I confirmed, my mouth dry. "What about him?"

He let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Well," he said, his voice low, as if he was telling me a secret, "it turns out that your handsome snake of a boyfriend is actually a _sadist_. Likes to carve nasty words into his disciples' forearms using nothing more than cursed knives and a tiny bit of elbow grease. It's an inventive punishment, actually—makes one wonder how he came up with it."

_Fucking hell._

"Who told you about that?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

He arched a scraggly blond brow.

"You knew? My, my, aren't _you _just full of surprises," he murmured. "It would seem that I have been _grossly _misinformed about quite a lot of things. Which actually brings me to the _reason_ behind your impromptu…visit."

My fingers twitched.

"Reason?" I repeated.

He eyed me speculatively.

"Indeed," he replied. "You see, I have a proposition for you, kitten."

I snorted.

"Of course you do."

His lip curled.

"Your name is Hermione Jean Granger," he said in an alarming sort of sing-song voice. "You were born in London, in 1979. Your parents were both muggle dentists. You spent most of your childhood alone, preferring the company of books to that of other children. You fainted when you got your Hogwarts letter. Your two best friends were named Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. They died approximately twenty minutes before you stepped on that pesky old time turner you always carried around. You received eleven O.W.L.'s at the end of your fifth year. You were tortured rather brutally by someone named Bellatrix Lestrange; she carved 'Mudblood' into your right forearm, which is…coincidental, wouldn't you say?"

I felt the bristly burn of my stomach acids lurching upwards, outwards, a corrosive tidal wave of bile and nausea and _how does he know all of this_—I wanted to ask, I did, but I physically fucking _couldn't_, my throat was locked, the muscles I would normally use to swallow wrapped relentlessly around the words, the questions, like a python suffocating its prey—

I exhaled shakily.

"What a curiously dramatic way to change the subject," I observed.

He drummed his fingertips against his thigh.

"Oh, my dear girl—you are a _delight_, aren't you?" he asked fondly. "I really was grievously misled. No _wonder _the Riddle boy was so eager to get his talons into you."

I grimaced. _Really?_

"Disgustingly poor sexual innuendo _aside_," I bit out, "That was a—quite a detailed biography. Of me. Of my life. And you now have my attention. I presume that's what you were after?"

His expression shifted from jovial to calculating so swiftly that I couldn't really grasp the change—but then I blinked, and he was harmless again, a blandly handsome man of indeterminate middle-age in a red velvet smoking jacket, legs crossed, eyes twinkling—my blood ran cold as he continued to study me.

"Indeed," he said again, more slowly. "Have you figured it out yet, kitten? Why I'm so interested in the boy? How it is that I know so much about you?"

I immediately wanted to groan in frustration—because _no one _in 1944 seemed to be able to speak plainly, clearly, concisely—everything was a puzzle, a game of guessing and leading and circumventing the truth, and it was maddening. It was ridiculous. It was a bloody fucking _nightmare_, all of the time, and I was never quite sure if I was being purposefully misdirected or simply lied to. I was always left to figure it out for myself, and since there wasn't an answer key, a teacher to double-check my work—I was alone, and for every conclusion I reached using logic and common sense there were a hundred doubts that crept in, fueled by insecurity and a begrudging acknowledgment of my own subjectivity.

"I can only deduce that while you were violating my subconscious earlier you also availed yourself of my other memories. From my previous life, I mean," I all but snarled, unable to keep the venom out of my voice.

He pursed his lips.

"You don't know very much about Legilimency, do you?"

My nostrils flared.

"It isn't like it's a common skill."

"And yet you're rather well acquainted with two individuals who happen to be masters of it," he pointed out.

I gritted my teeth.

"If you didn't use Legilimency—" I began hotly.

"I didn't," he interrupted.

I floundered for an explanation—and there was one, there had to be one, and it was creeping up on me like a skin rash, prickly and itchy and _no_, it couldn't be, it wasn't possible—but if it was—if it _was _possible, then I might not be stuck, I might not be trapped, I might be able to—

"You…" I trailed off, carefully modulating my voice. "You discovered how to travel forward in time, without boundaries. That's how you know those things. You know them because you were_ there_."

Part of me expected him to roar with laughter.

Another part of me _hoped _that he would.

Because I had a very bad feeling about what was going to happen next—because I knew what he was going to offer me, I knew what he was going to say; just like I knew that Dumbledore had been _wrong_. Grindewald didn't want me for any of the reasons that we had assumed—he didn't need me to tell him what the future would hold. He could find out for himself. And that's how he knew who Tom Riddle was, how he knew who Tom Riddle would become. That was how he knew to be scared.

"It's quite a complicated bit of magic, as I'm sure you can imagine," he said blithely, adjusting his collar. "I had only just perfected it when you arrived in August. The first thing I did, of course, was go forward about a decade—I am not a selfless man, you see, and divining my own future was of paramount importance."

I chewed the inside of my mouth.

"Then you know—"

"That Albus defeats me in a duel some time in June of next year? Yes," he answered with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

I paused.

"You've figured out how to stop him, then," I determined dully, the ramifications of what that _meant _stalling my instinctive need to hyperventilate.

"Indeed, my darling girl, I have," he replied, his posture still relaxed. "Which means that the only remaining fly in the ointment, so to speak, is the Riddle boy. And of all people, precious, _you _have to know why that is."

I glanced at the floor.

"What do you want with me?" I asked, not looking up.

His chair creaked and fabric rustled as he leaned forward again.

"I want you to tell me what he's planning, kitten," he said bluntly. "The timeline is too distressingly fragile for me to continue gallivanting back and forth—not that there is anything to really see yet, not in regards to him, but he is an exceptionally talented, uncommonly resourceful young man. I _will _have tostop him. And while I certainly don't _need _you—your assistance would be...appreciated."

I repressed a shudder.

"You want me to spy on him."

A grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the hour. It was three o'clock.

"It is my understanding that you have very little reason to be loyal to him," he drawled. "Considering the nature of your…relationship in the future."

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"What do you _want_?" I demanded.

Silence. And then—

"I already have a spy inside of Hogwarts, my darling," he said coolly. "They have done an admirable job of keeping track of _you_, naturally, but your paramour is decidedly more paranoid, and therefore incredibly difficult to get close to. The general consensus is that he trusts absolutely no one."

I took a breath.

"So?"

He cleared his throat.

"Except _you_, princess," he said pointedly.

"He doesn't trust me," I argued. "He _tolerates _me."

Except—

That wasn't precisely true.

The forced, flimsy affection that had marked the beginning of our relationship—_arrangement_, I reminded myself, _it's a fucking arrangement, Hermione_—had gradually turned into something else, something liquid and languid and _easy _that I tried very hard not to analyze. But no one needed to know that. No one needed to know that Tom Riddle's skin wasn't nearly as soft as it looked, or that he somehow always managed to keep his eyes open and trained on me as he came. No one needed to know that he didn't have a favorite color or that he fell asleep with my name falling from his lips, almost like a prayer. No one needed to know that I knew those things about him and no one needed to know _how _I knew those things about him and maybe most importantly—I didn't want to ever admit that I did, not out loud, not even in my own head.

"He might not trust you _now_," he replied with confidence, "but he will. My informant has assured me that he is disgustingly besotted with you."

My eyes snapped open.

"Look," I hissed. "He might be a sociopath, or a sadist, or whatever else you want to call him—but I'm not exactly convinced that _you're_ any better. And I'm not going to _use _his—his—_crush on me _to get him to tell me his secrets. I don't care how you spin it."

"That's disappointing," he murmured. "But what if I told you that I would send you home—back to your own time—if you agreed to help me? Hmm?"

My heart rattled like a drum along the inside of my ribcage. Every instinct I possessed was screeching at me to say _no_, to deny and reject and beg him to wipe this entire conversation from my memory—

"It wouldn't be home, though," I pointed out. My tongue felt peculiarly heavy. "So much has already changed—even if you _did _send me back, I wouldn't be going back to anything familiar."

He hummed noncommittally.

"That's true. But would that really be such a _bad _thing?" he asked. "Think about it, precious. You would be going back to a world that never had a _Dark Lord_—or—what is it he calls himself? Voldemort? You would be going back to a time when you never had to fight in a _war _against him. The very worst of your worries would be how soon your N.E.W.T's are coming up. There wouldn't be blood on your conscience. You would never again have to contemplate the line between self-defense and murder; never have to wonder if you're even capable of crossing it. You could go back to being normal and carefree, my darling girl. Don't you want that?"

"That sounds lovely," I responded bitterly. "Really. It does. But I'm a _muggle-born_. As in—my parents are both _muggles_. Non-magical beings. You know—the type of people that you want to either enslave or eradicate, depending on your mood. You _can't_ promise me a happy future. Not if you're in it."

His expression briefly tightened.

"Think of me as the lesser of two evils, then," he said, looking disconcerted.

I was incredulous.

"The lesser of—are you _mad_? I doubt that I'll even be _born _if you spend the next fifty years in power. My parents—God, _they _probably won't even be born!"

He didn't move.

"Harry and Ronald would be, though," he pressed. "They would be born, and when you go back, princess, they would still be _alive_. Don't you want to see them again? Don't you want them to not be dead?"

I flinched.

"You can't promise that," I whispered tremulously.

His face hardened.

"Is that a no, then? You won't help me in exchange for a trip home?"

I jerked my head backwards.

"Of course it's a _no_," I retorted. "And I haven't even _begun _to explain to you the myriad ways you are _obliterating _the stability of the timeline. You can't just—"

"I _can_, and I _will_," he interjected coldly, his whole demeanor changing, clicking off, morphing into something that wasn't approachable or comforting or even the slightest bit _safe_—and that was when I remembered to be afraid. Because I was wandless. Because he was stronger than me. Because I was alone, and no one was coming to rescue me, and I knew exactly what was coming next.

"Is this the part where you threaten to kill me for refusing to help you?"

He watched me fidget, the blond tint in his eyelashes catching the light and casting shadows on his cheekbones.

"No, it isn't," he replied with a deliberate twist to his words. "You see, precious, I noticed something about you when I was…doing my research."

My stomach turned.

"And what was that?"

He offered me a nasty smile.

"Well—it was entertaining, of course, to discover what a sanctimonious little swot you were," he said conversationally. "But what _really _captured my attention was the way that you seemed fundamentally _incapable _of being selfish. You were always so eager to help, eager to please, eager to save the day—first in line to rescue the house elves from their truly tragic lives of indentured servitude, weren't you, my dear?"

I held his gaze.

"What's your point?"

He sniffed.

"My point? My point, precious, is that I don't think the best way to obtain your cooperation is by threatening _you_," he answered. "I think you would respond much more…_enthusiastically _if I were to invite a few other people to the party, don't you?

My pulse hammered against the base of my neck.

"Who?" I managed to ask, my lips bloodless and thin and so fucking numb that I wasn't even sure I had spoken.

"I'm told that you were quite—ahem—_close_ with the Malfoy heir," he said silkily. "I can't recall his name. I'm also told that you've lately had a bit of a soft spot for the Lestrange boy—the very same boy who Riddle tortured with his potions knife. You know who I mean, kitten."

My thighs felt hot against the cool silk of the bed sheets.

"I'm not friends with either of them," I tried.

He chortled unpleasantly.

"You're a martyr," he shot back. "And they are, technically, _innocents_. Every last fiber of moral integrity you possess would positively _scream in horror_ if I were to force you to watch me gut them. Which I would, my darling. In case that wasn't clear."

Adrenaline coursed through my veins like watered-down bolts of electricity. I could not concentrate. I could not think. Something was buzzing under the surface of my skin, something solid and warm, and it took me several moments of blank uncertainty to realize that it was _resentment_. I ran a thumb along the edge of my skirt, listening intently to the sound of my fingernail catching on a loose wool thread. It was scratchy and loud and abrasive and—

I made up my mind.

"What do you want to know about Tom? What do you want me to—what should I be trying to find out?"

His answering grin was equal parts shrewd and triumphant.

"He wants something of mine," he replied. "Something valuable. And I have reason to believe, kitten, that he already has a plan in motion for how to acquire it. I want you to find out what that plan entails and who it involves and I want you to do it _quickly_. You have until the New Year."

I frowned.

"So you _do _have the Elder Wand."

He smirked.

"You will not send me owls," he went on, "or make any other outward, obvious attempt at communication. Every two weeks, I will send someone to retrieve you from your room. You will never see them coming. You will wake up here. You will tell me what you learned. You will not prevaricate. You will not lie. I will know if you do—just like I will know if you even _try _to warn Riddle or Lestrange or Malfoy about what you are doing."

I didn't blink.

"And if Tom breaks up with me? Before I learn anything?" I asked. My voice was flat.

He scoffed.

"He won't, precious."

I sneered disbelievingly.

"How do _you_ know?"

"Because he is a teenaged boy, despite his potential for excellence, and teenaged boys are _stupendously _easy to manipulate," he replied. "Case in point—his preoccupation with you begins and ends with a portion of his anatomy that I would never even _dream_ of mentioning in polite company. Always remember that, kitten."

I flushed.

"Thank you for the…_advice_," I said tightly. "When are you letting me go?"

He crossed his legs at the knee in one graceful, leisurely movement.

"All in due time, my darling, all in due time," he announced. "Before you leave, however, there is something I would quite like to show you."

"Oh?" I croaked uneasily.

He reached into the pocket of his smoking jacket and pulled out a small black pouch. He tossed it onto my lap. It was light enough to almost feel empty.

"Open it," he urged.

I tugged at the drawstring cord that was looped around the top of the bag. My hands felt clumsy.

"What is—" I broke off.

And then I stared, unseeing, at the brilliant gold chain suspended between my fingers. There was a tiny hourglass hanging from the middle, and I could just make out the initials "MM" engraved into its underside. It was unbroken. It was pristine. It was _mine_.

"How did you get this?" I gasped. "I—it was—it didn't even go _back _with me, it was in a thousand pieces on the floor—"

"Tell me something, my darling," he interrupted smoothly. "How, exactly, did you think you ended up in 1944?"

My lips parted.

"I assumed—I thought it was an accident."

He snorted derisively.

"No, you didn't," he said. "You didn't think that, because you aren't an imbecile. You knew that something had happened—something you couldn't explain. Didn't you, precious?"

It occurred to me, dimly, that I didn't want him to keep talking. I didn't want to hear what he was going to say. I didn't want to know what he had done, because I was sure—so fucking sure—that he had orchestrated all of it, all of _this_, and even if the logistics were blurry, even if I didn't understand _how_—it was just so much easier to believe that it was inevitable or inexplicable or _something_, something that I couldn't have fixed or stopped or prevented.

"You replaced my time turner," I said dumbly. "You went forward and you found me and you replaced it with one of yours and you—oh, _God_, how much have you tampered with already? How much was supposed to be different? There are _rules_—"

"There are _precautions_," he corrected sharply. "No one has ever been able to travel through time as freely as I have, and therefore no one knows _for certain _what might happen when alterations to the original timeline are made. There are a hundred separate theories about it, princess, and not one of them is absolute."

"You already admitted that the timeline is fragile—"

"It's flexible enough."

"It isn't a bloody _rubber band_," I countered. "You could be endangering the lives of _millions of people_, we could all just—just—_cease to exist_ tomorrow, or the next day, you can't _know _that everything will work itself out—"

He got to his feet with a sigh.

"Believe it or not, but I'd prefer the rest of the world to go down with me rather than _lose it_ to someone else," he said quietly, intensely, like he was making me a promise.

And then he was holding a wand—_where had it come from?_—and there was a burst of bright red light—_at least I won't wake up with a headache again_—and I felt my muscles seize and compress and bunch together before relaxing into a full-body faint—_I have to remember to tell Tom_, I thought, _I have to remember_—

I was already unconscious when I fell back onto the mattress.

OOO

**Author's Note**: I SWEAR THAT THIS ISN'T GOING IN THE RIDICULOUS SOAP-OPERA-ESQUE DIRECTION IT SEEMS LIKE IT MIGHT BE AFTER THE EMOTIONAL DEBACLE THAT WAS TOM'S JOURNAL ENTRY. Make of that what you will.

xoxo


	17. XVI

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Inexcusably late update, but—this chapter fucking ruined my life for, like, three solid weeks, so…there you have it. It is insanely plot-heavy. Not necessarily in an obvious way, which was kind of the point, and also why it took so goddamn long to finish. (If I could go back in time and punch myself in the kidneys for underlining the word 'subtle' as I wrote the outline for this, I totally fucking would. In case that wasn't clear.) I legitimately AGONIZED over how to write most of the dialogue. I also spent ages trying to figure out how a sociopath like Tom would react to…things. It was a pretty dismal writing experience, I'm not going to lie. That said, I'm FINALLY happy with how it turned out. (I should mention that there were originally an additional seven thousand words to this chapter—a scene with Slughorn and a longer one with Abraxas. They ended up not really fitting in at this point in the story, but I like them a lot, and if it turns out that they're ultimately unusable I might post them on Tumblr. Maybe.)

I LOVE YOU ALL.

xoxo Andrea

P.S. While reading this chapter, especially towards the end, please keep in mind that this is written in the first-person for a reason. By _definition_, Hermione is an unreliable narrator. Her perspective on certain conversations and events is heavily distorted by her emotions. What you read as Tom being protective and possessive and maybe even sweet, is probably something very different. This will all come to a satisfyingly dramatic crescendo later on, of course, but I keep trying to sneakily highlight how disturbingly manipulative Tom actually is and everyone is still all like, "I want one of him!" and I just can't pull a Stephanie Meyer and let you all believe that I legitimately think Tom and Hermione's present relationship is anything even close to healthy. Because it isn't. (Um, yeah, scaling walls every night to watch your underage girlfriend sleep without her knowledge or prior consent? There is no universe where that is not fucking creepy. And worth a restraining order. FYI. Fucking vampires. SERIOUSLY.)

OOO

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

_October 20, 1944_

The sun was just beginning to rise when I slipped inside the school gates. Dark purple skies had bled into fading pinks and pastel oranges, and an airbrushed tangle of clouds was wrapped around the sun, filtering out the first stirrings of daylight. It was probably beautiful. I didn't notice. I couldn't tell.

I walked slowly. I was wearing shoes again.

Grindewald's warnings—no, his _threats_—had been seared into my memory, branded like iron, and I knew that I was finally going to have to make a choice.

I didn't trust Dumbledore. I didn't want to run to him. I didn't want to confess what had happened and what had been said. But—he was supposed to be the one to defeat Grindewald. He was the one who _mattered_. Not Tom. Tom should be an afterthought, a nonentity; Tom would be fine, he was the sort who always took care of himself, who would find a way to win, to survive, until he simply…couldn't. He wasn't my responsibility. He wasn't mine to protect.

Except—

I _ached _to do just that.

I wanted to watch him smile, crookedly, like he meant it, like he couldn't help it, and I wanted to make him laugh, really laugh—not that throaty, perfunctory chuckle he employed whenever Edmond said something ostensibly hilarious, but a real laugh, _his _real laugh, the one that I'd only heard a handful of times—it was quiet and unobtrusive and _warm_, richly husky and somehow full of surprise, as if he wasn't quite used to having to use it yet.

I shivered as a brisk, early-morning breeze barreled across the grounds.

It was more than that, of course. I knew that. It was more than vague, half-formed notions of _safe_ and _happy_ and _whole_. It was aggressive. It was overwhelming. It was gripping and visceral and tangible enough that I sometimes felt like I could _choke_ on it if I didn't keep my guard up. But—

I didn't belong there. I didn't belong with him. I didn't belong in 1944, and forgetting that was not an option.

The castle was eerily quiet as I heaved open the front door.

Meeting Grindewald had changed everything. Before, it had only been about _me_. It had been about who wanted to hurt me, and who wanted me gone, and who I could trust to keep me safe. It had been about preventing apocalyptic levels of catastrophe and eventually figuring out how to get home. The lines between right and wrong—between Tom and Dumbledore—had been blurry and hard to define—they hadn't mattered, not really, and I had allowed myself to be selfish because there was _room _to be. I had stopped being afraid of Tom. I had taken his advice. I had trusted him with my secrets and tried to comfort him when he'd been upset and fallen asleep in his fucking _bed _after allowing him to—

My footsteps didn't echo in the empty hallways. They were muted; soft; hushed—like I wasn't even there at all.

I thought back to the night he'd first kissed me, right in the middle of the entrance hall, when my dress had been in tatters and his jacket had felt like a lead weight around my shoulders. I could have run, then. I could have pulled away. I could have stepped back, ignored the newly awakened buzz of electricity under the surface of my skin, the slightly dry catch of his lower lip against mine before he'd pressed forward and taken control and fucking _devoured _me—it just hadn't felt _singular_, not at the time, it had felt like a thousand separate moments finally converging into something real, a hundred unrelated decisions finally taking shape; and if I'd known what I was doing, known what I was starting—

I still would have kissed him back.

I hesitated at the entrance to the Transfiguration corridor. Dumbledore's office door was shut tight.

Dumbledore was supposed to be the one to win. Dumbledore was supposed to be the one to take mastery of the Elder Wand. Dumbledore had everyone's best interests in mind—

I clenched my jaw.

_For the Greater Good_.

There were always going to be casualties. I wasn't so naïve as to think otherwise. But wasn't Dumbledore's cavalier dismissal of _my _life, of _my _wellbeing—wasn't that just as bad as anything Tom had done so far? I didn't want to die. I didn't want to be the one who had to be sacrificed in order to satisfy the arrogant machinations of a manipulative old man. I had already given up so much in my other life; I'd lost my childhood and I'd lost my family and I'd lost my best friends, both of them, and it was all because we had blindly, _faithfully_, followed his instructions, believed every duplicitous word he'd uttered—we had been _children_, we had _trusted _him, and he'd used us, played with us like we were nothing more than expendable toy soldiers.

I turned on my heel.

Grindewald had to lose. The timeline was precarious now, riddled with hairline fractures and microscopic fissures—it was unstable, collapsible, and Grindewald had to lose.

I headed for the dungeons.

Tom could _win_. He could absolutely win, and I had read enough about time travel, about temporal logic and time paradoxes and whether or not alternate universes could even exist—I had read enough to know that it was possible for the actual _outcome_ of the duel to be the only part that mattered. Grindewald had to lose. That was important. But all the rest—who defeated him, who took possession of his wand—maybe that was less relevant. And Tom could win. Tom could do it. He was ruthless. He was _brutal_. Dumbledore would spare Grindewald's life, imprison him in a drafty German cell for half a bloody century; Tom would not. Tom would kill him. Tom would make sure that he couldn't come back. And considering what Grindewald could do—considering that he'd managed to turn _time _into something fluid and flexible and painfully unnatural—he was better off dead, wasn't he?

_For the Greater Good_.

I swallowed hard.

I could keep the Elder Wand for myself. Tom could win it and I could disarm him, a simple first-year spell he would never see coming, not from me—it would be a betrayal, he would hate me afterwards—he would hate me so _much _afterwards, fuck, there would be no going back from that—but I could _destroy _the wand, not just _hide _it, and that would be—

_For the Greater Good_.

The grandfather clock in the common room chimed seven times as I moved through the smooth stone wall.

Melania was still asleep when I crept into our dormitory; she didn't wake up when I turned on the shower, when steam began to seep through the crack under the bathroom door, or when I rummaged through my dresser drawers for a clean skirt. She didn't wake up when I tripped over my discarded shirt and fell into the side of my bed with a muffled, "_Fucking hell_," and she didn't wake up when I opened our door and dim white light spilled into the room.

It was almost as if someone had drugged her.

I dispelled the thought with a pointed shake of my head.

Tom would be awake now.

I rapped my knuckles on the seventh year boys' dormitory door. Edmond Lestrange answered with a bleary yawn.

"Granger?" he asked. He was half-dressed, his shirt unbuttoned and his belt buckle hanging loose around his hips. His chest was pale, surprisingly well-built, and littered with small clusters of freckles. His hair was mussed. His mouth was soft and relaxed.

I flushed.

"Is Tom up yet? I need to speak with him," I said politely.

He squinted at me in confusion.

"He's in the shower, I think?" he replied. "But you're welcome to come in and…wait, if you'd like. I'm sure he won't mind."

I wrung my hands nervously.

"Who else is—" I started to ask.

"Oi! Lestrange! Who the fuck are you talking to? It's seven in the fucking morning and not all of us are fucking vampires, you know," a deep, sleep-slurred voice called out.

I winced. _Abraxas_.

Edmond half-turned around, swinging the door open all the way with a squeal of its hinges.

"Granger's here," Edmond answered gruffly, shooting me an apologetic glance.

There was a pause.

"Well, fuck _me_," Abraxas murmured. He sounded closer. "Has Tommy-boy finally figured out what his cock's for?"

And then he appeared from behind Edmond, leaned against the doorway, and smirked. He was shirtless. His abdomen was nothing but silky alabaster skin and firmly defined ridges of muscle. His trousers were unzipped and clinging to the trim line of his hips, exposing a thick line of wiry blond hair that started at his navel and went down, _down_—

"Still worried about losing that bet, Malfoy?" I sneered, ignoring the way his nipples were pale pink and pebbled in the cold dungeon air.

Abraxas deliberately looked me up and down.

"Of course not," he drawled, crossing his arms and flexing his perfectly sculpted biceps in the process. "Gambling's against school rules, Granger. Don't think I've forgotten."

I narrowed my eyes.

"You should probably put on a shirt," I suggested coolly. "I'd hate for Tom to think you were making me uncomfortable on purpose."

Edmond bit back a smile and glanced away. Abraxas looked livid.

"A cunt's a cunt, Granger," Abraxas snarled viciously. "He'll get sick of fucking you eventually, and then you'll learn exactly what it means to fuck over a Malfoy."

"_Abraxas_—" Edmond hissed.

"It's fine, Edmond," I interrupted. "Abraxas is just bitter that he lost at something. He's awfully competitive, isn't he? All that quidditch and misdirected testosterone—it's understandable. _Really_."

Edmond blinked.

"Understandable," he repeated dubiously. "Right."

Abraxas' nostrils flared.

"Anyway," I went on blithely, "do the two of you mind moving out of the way? As cozy as the hallway is, I think I'd rather wait for Tom inside."

Edmond stepped backwards.

"Yeah, 'course. You know which bed's his, I take it?" he asked in a carefully neutral tone.

Abraxas stomped over to his dresser, yanking out the drawers with enough force to knock them to the ground.

"I do, thank you," I confirmed, shooting Edmond an amused grin.

His lips twitched.

"He should be out soon," he said, doing up the buttons on his shirt. "I'll wait with you once I find a fucking tie. I _swear_, it's like the elves _hide _them just to get back at me for that thing in second year, with the dungbombs—memories like fucking elephants, the lot of them. It's bloody ridiculous."

I sat down on Tom's unmade bed, feeling for the residual body heat in his sheets. His pillow was still warm.

"Do I even want to know?" I inquired mildly, wrinkling my nose.

Edmond grimaced. Across the room, Abraxas had pulled on the rest of his uniform and was slinging his book bag over his shoulder.

"Probably not," Edmond admitted. "But to be fair, I was _twelve_, and Nott had insisted he'd found the charm in a reputable spell-book from the _library_—Nott's a bloody liar, by the way, I should mention that first—and if Tom hadn't known the counter-curse like he did I probably would've been expelled, so—"

The bathroom door opened and Tom emerged with nothing but a thin white towel wrapped around his waist. He didn't immediately notice me.

My mouth went dry.

"Are you _really_ reminiscing over the pixie-summoning spell you accidentally cast when we were second years?" Tom asked, arching an impatient brow. But then his gaze settled on me, and his expression minutely shifted. I fought the urge to fidget.

"Hermione was curious," Edmond said defensively, knotting his tie with a series of jerky, uncoordinated motions that made Abraxas roll his eyes.

"I somehow doubt that," Tom responded, pulling a shirt over his head and reaching for a pair of neatly folded trousers. "But if you're done getting dressed, you both can go to breakfast. We might skip."

Abraxas scoffed loudly and wrenched open the dormitory door. Edmond jumped at the noise and warily watched him leave.

"Should _I_ be the one to tell him he's acting like a jilted fucking fourth year _girl_, then?" Edmond muttered.

Tom shrugged.

"He knows what will happen to him if he continues," he said. "Although—you might want to remind him of _precisely_ how irritating I find bloodstains. And how happy I would be if he helped me avoid having to deal with them."

Edmond went still. My gaze flicked to his forearm.

"'Course," he replied, lurking in the doorway. "I'll just—do that. Go to breakfast, I mean. I'll—see you both later? Yeah, later."

He nodded in my direction before scurrying down the hallway, the door swinging shut behind him. Tom tugged on his trousers with one hand holding onto his towel. He didn't speak to me.

"I was kidnapped last night," I blurted out.

His towel fell to the floor. He didn't pick it up.

"What?"

I picked at my cuticles.

"Someone knocked me out when I got back to my room," I said, feeling strangely jittery. His eyes were trained on my face. They looked almost black in the dim candlelight. "I woke up in a house—Grindewald was there."

He approached me slowly.

"And?"

I told him everything—the threats and the explanations and Grindewald's manic fixation with using time travel as a means to acquire information—and Tom listened. He didn't interrupt.

"And he wants me to spy on you," I finished. "To tell him what you're planning."

He cocked his head to the side, his expression incredulous.

"That's…an incredibly stupid plan," he replied. "Are you sure that's what he said?"

My gaze snapped up to his.

"What do you mean?"

"I _mean _that I doubt he actually thinks he's going to learn anything from you," he said. "About me, I mean. He's using you for something else. He just doesn't want you to know what it is. I wonder…"

I stared at him for one, two, three seconds too long.

And then I was flopping backwards onto his bed, my body wracked with helpless bursts of laughter, my hair fanned out across his sheets and my shoulders shaking with poorly suppressed sobs and it was all just so fucking _ridiculous_, wasn't it? I was stuck in the wrong time with the wrong people and I didn't know what I was doing or what was going on and it was _ridiculous_, all of it, all of it was fucking _ridiculous_, and—

Tears were crisscrossing in salty-sweet rivulets down the side of my face, bleeding into the paper-thin skin behind my ears, before I even registered that I had stopped laughing.

"You know, I used to be _really _good at reading people," I confessed with a wry twist of my lips. "Not because I'm particularly good _with _people—I'm not, not really, they tend to find me abrasive—but because I _notice things_. I'm observant. Or—I used to be. I was analytical. Practical. I could decipher speech patterns and body language and—and it was _easy _for me to figure out what people weren't saying, to understand what they were trying to hide. I was…smart. It was hard to trick me."

I felt the mattress dip as he sat down.

"I can see that," he replied cautiously. "You…pay attention to details. That hasn't changed."

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"I'm not—" I started to say before cutting myself off. "It was different. Before. Where I'm from. I was a _target_, yes, but—I understood the rules. I understood why. I understood what they wanted from me, and I understood _why _they wanted it, and here—I don't. I don't understand what's happening—and I keep feeling like I _should_, like I should have an advantage because I—I know what's _supposed _to happen, but it isn't working out like that and this isn't like—this isn't like _before_, when I knew that I wasn't safe but I had a good reason not to be. Here…"

He shifted restlessly.

"Here?" he prodded.

I wiped a hand over my mouth.

"Here…" I trailed off. "Here, I don't understand anyone's motives. I don't know what they want. I don't know how or why I'm even _involved_. I'm—I'm lost. And because I don't _know _anything, all I have left are my _instincts_, which—God, those haven't been very helpful, have they? I'm just—I don't know who I'm fighting. I don't know _why _I'm fighting. I don't know what I'm fighting _for_ and it's hard to—it's confusing, yes, but it's mostly…frustrating. I feel like I can't keep up. I feel fucking _stupid_."

He made a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat.

"You have a habit of making things significantly more complicated than they're meant to be," he said with a sigh. "You're not _stupid_, Hermione. You're a Gryffindor who likes to do the right thing, indiscriminately, and you're surrounded by people who…don't. Who aren't like you_ at all_."

I turned my head to the side and blinked up at him.

"I don't think that was a compliment."

He offered me a tentative half-smile. It softened his features, made him look younger, more vulnerable. I wondered at its timing.

"Normally, it wouldn't be. But you're…have you ever thought that the way you do things—the way you talk, the way you act, so straight-forward, so _honest_—have you ever thought that people here find _that_ equally as discomfiting?"

I swallowed.

"I've made an effort, I'll have you know, to not…be like that."

His lips thinned.

"You're defensive," he said bluntly. "And you're argumentative. You treat most of your conversations as competitions to be won—which, to be fair, isn't necessarily an _inaccurate_ perception, but…what's the saying? If you act like prey, you should expect to be _treated_ like prey?"

I sputtered.

"I don't act like _prey_," I retorted hotly.

He arched a single dark brow.

"Not on purpose, no," he replied. "But it isn't very difficult to discern how frightened you are sometimes. That's—that's what I mean about you being straight-forward. You're easy to read. And Slytherins—people like _me_—know how to take advantage of that."

I considered what he had said.

"So…what, I need to become a better liar?" I drawled sarcastically.

He huffed out a laugh.

"No," he answered evenly, shaking his head. "You need to stop thinking that people here are anything at all like you. They aren't. _We _aren't. You're looking and listening for the wrong things when you talk to them. It would also help if you weren't so bloody _obvious _about how much you don't trust anyone, but—I suppose that would fall under the 'becoming a better liar' category, wouldn't it?"

"I don't _not trust anyone_," I shot back bitterly. "I mean—I trust _you_. What does that mean?"

His gaze faltered.

"You—"

"_Yes_," I interrupted. "I do. Which is just so—_so_—"

He rolled onto his side and propped his head up with his hand.

"What are you saying, Hermione?"

I studied his face, all strong lines and smooth symmetry. A swift pang of longing reverberated through my body. Because it was _hard_, still, after all these weeks, to associate _this_ version of Tom Riddle with the one I had known fifty years in the future. There was nothing to connect them; no obvious similarities. It was as if they were two completely different people.

"Youwere supposed to be the bad guy," I said finally. "You—it was supposed to be _you_. Dumbledore was supposed to be trustworthy and you were supposed to be…you were supposed to be _Voldemort_. But instead—it isn't like that. Dumbledore tried to use me and you've done nothing but try and _protect _me and—I don't know—it's _backwards_. It's _backwards _that out of everyone I've met here, you're the one I'm trusting and talking to and—"

He opened his mouth.

He narrowed his eyes.

But then he hesitated.

And it was that, of all things—_of all fucking things_—that made it all comprehensible, suddenly and ferociously, that turned ten seconds of thoughtful, telling silence into _poetry_—because he was _trying_, he was trying to listen and he was trying to help and _I knew what that meant_, I knew what it meant that he asked me not to leave him, not ever, in the middle of sex, and I knew what it meant that he _understood_ that it wasn't the physical pain that still haunted me when I showed him the scar on my arm—I knew what it meant that I wanted to run away, that I wanted to kiss him, always, that the idea of hurting him, even indirectly, made me feel violently, viciously sick.

He was dangerous. He was sleek and beautiful and deadly; the perfect predator. He had wanted me, and now he _had_ me, and I couldn't help but wonder if he knew that, if he realized it, if he had any concept of how deeply, disturbingly honest I had been when I'd told him that I wished things were different—that we could have had a proper beginning, a real one, that I could have met him without the burden of knowing his future, without knowing what he was capable of. It didn't make sense. It wasn't rational. But he was brilliant and he was complicated and he looked at me like I was something _precious_.

And I was in love with him.

I wasn't startled by that thought. It had been swimming vaguely in the back of my head for days, a lurking, brooding, shadowy presence that I never quite let myself acknowledge. Because acknowledging it—saying it out loud—would mean that I was, perhaps, a little more broken than I wanted to admit. It would mean that there was something inside of me that could justify the things he had done, the people he had hurt. It would mean that I recognized the feeling of being separate from everyone else in a way that I couldn't fix, couldn't take back—except I _did_, I knew now what it meant to be alone, really fucking alone, and if two months of it could drive me mad, _eighteen years _seemed unfathomable. And was that sympathy? Or empathy? I didn't know. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to love him.

"Why do you—" he broke off, clearly frustrated.

"Why do I _what_?"

He exhaled impatiently.

"What are you trying to prove, Hermione? By saying things like that? In fifty years, I turn into someone you obviously find reprehensible. Someone you want dead. I get that. I got that the first five times you brought it up and refused to explain yourself."

I flinched at his tone.

"I've told you—"

"You've told me _nothing_," he spat. "You've dropped hints and implied that I'm quite the evil bastard, but you haven't—how am I supposed to make it better? If I don't know what I did wrong?"

I gaped at him.

"I never asked you to _make it better_," I insisted. "You _can't _make it better. The things you do—I thought I made that clear."

He sneered.

"So you just fucked me for fun, I take it?"

I cringed.

"I didn't mean to—" But then I stopped. I didn't know how to respond. I didn't know how to explain that no, no, it hadn't been like that, I had _wanted _him, I still fucking _wanted _him, all of the time, I wanted him all of the fucking time—I didn't know how to tell him, didn't know how to make him see that it was _complicated_—more than complicated, even, like a puzzle with a permanently missing final piece—because what was I supposed to _do_?

"Do you even realize?" he asked, his voice low. "What I would do for you? What I would—_Christ_, Hermione, I've never wanted something so _much_, never wanted to—and you don't even realize it, do you?"

I didn't reply.

There were words I could have used, I thought—but they were too small, too inadequate, and they were stuck on my tongue, mired in self-doubt and uncertainty and a crippling fear of what it might mean if I let him hear them.

"I would—I would _kill _for you," he went on, nostrils flared. "I would fucking _eviscerate _anyone who tried to hurt you. I would—fuck, I wouldn't even use magic, I don't think, I would just—I would rip their throats out, one by one by _one_, watch them fucking bleed to death and fucking—fucking _enjoy _it—and I would maim and torture and _disembowel _whoever tried to take you away from me—I wouldn't even think twice about it. Do you understand that? Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

I shut my eyes.

I was going to cry.

This was not supposed to have happened.

"No, I don't understand," I whispered, knowing what was coming. "But I want to. I want to understand."

I took a harsh breath.

The thing was, I wasn't Harry. I hardly had any memories of Voldemort that weren't secondhand retellings of impossible magic and sinister intimidation tactics and blood, so much fucking blood—what could I show him, really, that could encapsulate everything he had indirectly done to me? I had only ever seen his face _once_, right before he died, and the months leading up to that had been nothing but running and hiding and being so, so afraid that nothing would ever be okay again—

I opened my eyes.

"Do it, then," I said defiantly.

He clenched his jaw. He took hold of my shoulders. His gaze bore into mine—

"_Legilimens_."

It was—

Gentle.

I felt him, felt his magic seeping into the whorls and cracks and ridges that paved the surface of my brain—but it was a warm gust of wind, soft and comforting, nothing at all like the violent, painful intrusion Harry had described. He was carding through my memories, brief glimpses of long-forgotten images flashing across my subconscious—there was Professor McGonagall explaining what Hogwarts was to my baffled, frightened parents, her lips pinched into a tight, uncomfortable smile until I'd stepped forward and introduced myself and said, "I have quite a lot of questions. I expect you'll want to stay for tea," my expression almost laughably serious; and then Harry and Ron and Neville and even Lavender Brown being Sorted into Gryffindor, Draco Malfoy's platinum-blond hair glinting in the candlelight as he snickered derisively over at the Slytherin table; and then there were shorter, less detailed fragments—Hagrid's laugh and Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles and the terrifying shadow of a slobbering three-headed dog sleeping underneath the floorboards, childish shrieks followed by waking Harry up in the hospital wing and then it was the next year and I was brewing Polyjuice potion in the second-floor lavatory, dull yellow eyes reflecting back at me from a small hand mirror and then nothing, nothing, nothing—

_Forward_.

I was a fifth year, I thought I was in love with Ron, Harry was saying something about a prophecy—_forward forward forward_—I was on the back of a thestral, we were in the Department of Mysteries, there was shouting and so much bright green light and broken glass littering the floor and the agonizing burn of an unknown curse cutting into my abdomen, painful enough that I was out, out, again, _again_—_forward_—Bill Weasley's wedding, Kingsley Shacklebolt's patronus, _the Ministry has fallen_, and then _Death Eaters Death Eaters Death Eaters_, the potent stench of fear—_grab the Mudblood_—running away, always running away, horcrux hunting—_**seven**__ fucking horcruxes, seven is the most magical number, there are seven horcruxes, Harry_—having to switch off wearing the fucking locket, arguing with Ron, missing my parents, missing _everything_, crying myself to sleep, alone in the tent—and then we were captured, _snatched_, and Bellatrix Lestrange was giggling, twirling her wand, taunting me in the Malfoy's front drawing room, asking me questions and calling me Mudblood and demanding answers that she knew I wouldn't give—then pain, there was pain, and blood and blood and blood and _pain_ and Lucius Malfoy was saying something, saying, "Stop it, Bella, _please_, stop it, please, think of Draco," or maybe I'd imagined that but Harry and Ron were yelling in the background and there was still so much _blood_ and Draco Malfoy looked sick, something that might have been an apology clouding his pristine Pureblood eyes, eyes that were fixed on my forearm, except I hadn't seen it yet, and it was all blurry by that point, the memory fading in and out, so much fucking blood and pain and _noise_ and then a bony, long-fingered hand was wrapped around my wrist and I was gone, gone—_forward again_—Hogwarts was a battleground, charred portraits and scorched walls and I was sprinting outside, hurling curses over my shoulder, praying they connected, but then I skidded to a halt because there was _Voldemort_—

Chalk-white, flat-nosed face, serpentine features, unnatural red eyes, hardly even human and he was _dueling with Harry_, something was happening, no, no, he was dead, Harry was dead, both of them were dead, _no_, Harry was dead, _no_, Harry was dead, Ron was screaming screaming screaming and I couldn't understand, _no_, Harry was dead, but Bellatrix Lestrange let out a roar that was so saturated with grief _it hardly made sense_ and was running towards us and _Harry was dead_, and then we were leaping over bodies, mostly dead, fleeing into the wreckage of the castle, and there was a triumphant screech as Ron went down, right next to me, cold stiff fingers grazing my elbow as he fell to the ground, dead dead dead, _no_, Harry was dead, _no_, Ron was dead, and then there was the ever-present weight of the time turner between my breasts and I was so fucking tired and Harry was dead and I spun around and wrenched it off my neck and—

Tom left my head.

It was over.

I couldn't look away from him.

He didn't say anything for a long, tense moment.

"I…after all of that—everything I did—I _lost_," he said incredulously, his expression flickering between confusion and sadness and anger and disbelief and—my stomach twisted when I realized what he had said. "I did it—I fucking _did it_, Hermione, I was the most powerful man alive—I had the fucking _Ministry_—and I _still lost_. How—I don't understand. Hermione. I don't—I _lost_."

I blinked. I tried to clear my head. I failed.

"You did," I confirmed quietly. "You did lose. Eventually."

He stared at his hands. He flexed his fingers.

"I made seven horcruxes," he stated, oddly flat. "_Seven_. I died—I died _seven times_. My face…"

I chewed the inside of my mouth.

"You were resurrected," I replied. "I don't have the memory, I wasn't there—but Harry—my best friend—he was there. He saw it. You used magic to give yourself a new body. Dark magic. Obviously. And that's—that's what it looked like."

He glanced over at me. His eyes were hard.

"I lost," he said again. "I was barely even human and I made seven bloody horcruxes and I—I fucking _lost_. I _lost_, Hermione."

My lips parted.

"I know you did," I responded. "I was there."

He didn't move.

"I killed your friend," he said dully. "Right in front of you. You watched me…Hermione. Hermione. I _lost_."

I held his gaze.

"You killed a lot of people right in front of me."

He shuddered.

"Everything—after everything—_seven horcruxes, Hermione_—do you know how much it hurts to make even one? Do you know—_seven_, I made _seven_ of them, and I still—I lost."

I lifted my chin.

"If it makes you feel any better, you _did _manage to completely and irreparably destroy several thousand innocent lives _before_ you lost," I snapped.

He smoothed a hand across his forehead.

"Including yours."

I froze.

"Yeah," I said thickly, thinking of Harry, of Ron, of my parents and Professor Snape and even Draco Malfoy's pale, drawn, horrified face when he'd finally seen what Bellatrix Lestrange had done to my arm. "Including mine."

He shifted, then, moved closer to me, the unexpected heat from his body catching me off guard. I couldn't help but shiver.

"I'm not sorry," he said. "I'm not sorry for what I did—for what I do. I'm _not_."

I looked at him quizzically.

"I never thought you would be."

He threw an arm over my lower abdomen and buried his face into the curve of my waist. I let him.

"You can't go back there," he said, curling his hand around the un-tucked hem of my shirt. "Now that you've shown me. Especially if I—"

He didn't finish.

He didn't need to.

_Especially if I figure out how to win next time._

I carded my fingers through his hair. I thought about how horrible this conversation should have been. I thought about why it wasn't. I thought about why I didn't _care_ that it wasn't.

"I can't go back regardless," I replied. "Not if Grindewald wins. At least I know that I'm _born _in a timeline where you're the villain."

His grip tightened.

"He won't win."

"He might," I countered weakly. "He _could_."

"He won't," he repeated. "Not now that I have you on my side."

I pursed my lips.

"That sounds ominous."

He snorted.

"I saw what you're capable of in your memories, Hermione. You're remarkably clever."

"And?"

"_And_," he continued, sliding his thumb underneath the waistband of my skirt, rubbing back and forth, back and forth, "you're an asset. You're magically gifted. You think quickly and efficiently and rather brilliantly. You've already lived through one war. You know how to fight, and you know how to survive, and you know how to _win_. How to plan. Dumbledore already underestimated you. From what you've told me, Grindewald seems to be slightly more aware of your value, but can't see past the more obvious threats to his power. You're my secret weapon, aren't you?"

I absently scratched my fingernails over the back of his neck.

And then it hit me—like a fucking hurricane, all gale-force winds and tempestuous sheets of rain and the acrid risk of danger and chaos and unwelcome, unstoppable destruction—that he had already processed what his future held and catalogued the mistakes he assumed he would make and was now firmly back in the present, the anguish he'd felt mere minutes earlier neatly packed away and compartmentalized and left to rot in whatever cerebral graveyard he reserved for disappointment and failure.

That was not normal.

That was not rational.

And I did not know what to _say_.

"That doesn't mean we can beat him, though," I pointed out shakily.

His thumbnail caught on the lace edge at the top of my knickers.

"_Hermione_," he implored, plucking at the buttons on my shirt with his other hand, exposing my stomach. "He won't win. I won't let him win. Do you understand?"

No.

No.

I did not understand.

"You—_we_—need a plan," I responded, my lips numb. "And I'm sure you have one, but—you have to _tell _me, Tom, you have to tell me what it is, and we need to—it needs to be perfect. It needs to work."

He pressed a sloppy kiss into the skin below my bellybutton.

"You need to talk to Dumbledore first," he said, dragging his tongue along the hollow of my pelvic bone.

My breath hitched.

"W—why?"

He heaved himself up, swinging his legs over my body so that his knees were bracketing my hips. He toyed with the zipper on the side of my skirt. I shifted unsteadily.

"Because I'm almost positive that he's the one who encouraged Malfoy to give you that ring," he purred, deftly tugging his own shirt over his head and tossing it onto the floor. "He probably thought he could use it to track you once you were kidnapped by Grindewald."

I could see the outline of his half-hard cock in the placket of his trousers. The cotton of my underwear felt thin and cold against my clit.

"That's—that's—what does that have to do with your plan?" I managed to rasp as he tugged my skirt down my legs.

His fingers fluttered around my knickers, knuckles grazing the sticky wet patch along the front.

"Nothing, really," he replied, bending down to nose at the soft, soft skin of my inner thighs. "But he has to have figured out by now that that particular plan didn't work, and I'd like to know if he has any others involving Malfoy before I…proceed."

And then his mouth latched onto my clit, right through my knickers, and he _sucked_, making an obscene slurping noise with his lips, and my vision went spotty, just for a second, and I might have forgotten how to breathe. I couldn't tell.

"_Oh_," I gasped. "Makes—makes sense. But why—_oh, my God_, do that again, please, please, do that again—"

He shot me a wicked grin before removing my underwear altogether and diving back in, mouth hot and open as he fucked me with his tongue, pinpricks of pain shooting up my sides as his fingernails dug in.

"_Fuck_," he swore, alternating between speaking and lapping at my clit. "You taste—_so fucking good, sweetheart_—want to fuck you, want to watch you come, want you to beg for it, for my cock, come on, yeah, like that—"

My toes curled into his sheets.

"Please," I said, "just—I need—_please_, Tom—"

He lurched backwards, scrabbling for the fastenings of his trousers. His lips were swollen. His chin was shiny. He looked fucking _desperate._

"Say it," he commanded, shucking his pants and climbing onto the bed. He sat with his back to the headboard, his cock flushed and hard and leaking as it rested against his stomach. "Tell me what you need, sweetheart, come on, I want to hear it—"

My cheeks turned pink.

"_Tom_," I pleaded.

He grabbed my wrists, yanked me closer, into his lap, positioned my legs so that I was straddling him, so that all I would have to do was go up on my knees, just for a second, and then—

"Say it," he repeated, drawing maddening half-circles along my inner thighs with his fingers. "Say it, sweetheart, just say it and I'll take care of you, give you everything you need, come on, just _say it_ and tell me exactly what you want—"

I opened my mouth.

The head of his cock brushed my clit.

"Fuck me, Tom," I finally said. "I need you to—just _fuck me_, please."

His hands squeezed my backside, hard enough to bruise, and then—

"Bloody fucking hell," he whispered, sounding frantic.

But he slid inside of me quickly, in one fluid motion, and there was an immediate moment of silence, stillness, a muffled groan and a quiet curse and the helpless, inescapable fluttering of eyelashes—and then his grip tightened, his fingernails scrunched into my flesh, and his mouth was hot and moist and perfect against my neck, I wanted to keep it there, never wanted it to leave, wanted his teeth around my madly beating pulse and his tongue flicking out and up and across my collarbones and his breath swirling through the lukewarm sheen of sweat that had settled over my skin.

I wanted that and I wanted him and I wanted it _forever_ and when he finally moved, when he finally tilted his hips and pushed up, pushed closer—

"_Oh_," I gasped.

His pelvis was crushed against my clit, creating a slippery sort of friction that was making it difficult to think or speak or even remember what the fuck my name was. I instinctively ground down, needing _more_ and _harder _and _yes, just like that _and he thrust upwards again, the resulting slap of skin on skin echoing loud and filthy and wet in the partial darkness of his dormitory. The jarring bump of his cock hitting my cervix was just shy of painful, felt bad, good, _right_, an uncomfortable reminder that I was _full_, that this was what I'd asked for, that the booming thud of blood rushing to my head and the slow-fast spiral of pleasure curling around my spine were things that were _happening_, it wasn't a dream, it wasn't a nightmare, it was real real _real_—

"Yeah," he breathed heavily, "come on, sweetheart, like that, yeah, just like that—"

I rolled my hips, felt the muscles in my thighs tense and burn as I moved—up and down, _fuck_, down and up, _yes_—and I clutched his shoulders, marveled at the heat of his bare skin, the silky slick perfection of it, even as I continued to use him as leverage to keep going, keep _chasing_, and then he clapped one of his hands against my backside, painfully fucking _hard_, and it stung, it prickled, and he shifted his body, changed the angle of his thrusts into something shallow and deliberate, and the underside of his cock dragged against my inner walls, made every last inch feel rough and thick and so fucking exquisite that I barely even noticed the newly insistent pressure on my clit—

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he asked, rocking up, forward, _yes_. "Tell me, I want to hear you, I want to fucking hear how fucking good it is for you—"

My lips were already bitten through, chewed up and raw and swollen—but I forced my mouth open, released a broken moan, couldn't stop it—_yes_—didn't even want to fucking stop it—_yes_—and we were moving so _slow_, the heat between us sloppy and sluggish, and I tipped my head back, unable to keep my neck straight, unable to process that there was nothing frantic or desperate about the way his cock was buried inside of me—no, this wasn't like the first time, not even _close _to the first time—that had been all laser-sharp nerve endings and messy, chaotic fumbling and this was _different_.

This wasn't about possession.

This wasn't about being taken.

This was—

"I—you feel—_Tom_," I said, stumbling over the words. "I don't know how to—"

"Yeah," he panted. "Yeah, I know, I know, just—yeah, like that—_fuck me_ _just like that_—keep going, sweetheart, could do this forever, want to do this _forever—_"

I swept my hands up his throat, cupped his face, felt the strangely delicate bones in his jaw—I was kissing him before I understood that I wanted to, running my tongue along the slightly uneven ridge of his teeth, tasting him and devouring him and trying so incredibly fucking hard to convey all the things I wasn't brave enough to say out loud—I wondered if I should be more gentle, less aggressive, but it was too late.

He was already kissing me back.

He moved one of his hands, trailed a feather-light fingertip down the center of my spine, elicited a shiver and a whimper and an inward chorus of _breathe Hermione just fucking breathe keep it together fuck fuck yes breathe_—except I was getting wetter and wetter and wetter and the sweat-drenched slide of our bodies felt _obscene_, felt like the languid popping crackle of a roaring fire, felt like too much and not enough and I wanted to go faster, I wanted to fucking _come_, but I knew better, I knew that what was happening just then, what was being stirred so fucking _fiercely_ between us—it was intimate and it was unhurried and it was _ours_, it was _us_, it was him and me and a thousand different versions of perfect—

"Thought about fucking you like this for ages," he slurred into my open, waiting mouth, his lips catching on mine, his voice scratchy and heavy and deep. "Wanted—wanted to watch you sit on my cock, just like this, wanted to hold onto you while you came—so fucking beautiful when you come, I can't—I don't know how—_fuck, do that again_—"

I ducked my head, pressed my face into his shoulder, felt my nipples tighten and brush against the faint dusting of wiry black hair on his chest.

"I'm going to—Tom—please please please—_Tom_," I stammered, biting down on the stretched-out tendon at the base of his neck.

"Yeah, that's it," he managed to reply, and he sounded _gutted_, wrecked, as if he couldn't bring himself to focus on breathing, as if his lungs were protesting the lack of oxygen and his vocal chords shouldn't have still been working but he was forcing the words out _anyway_, just because he could, just because he had to. "Say my name, say it again, I want to fucking hear you, come on, sweetheart, say it again—"

And then our hips were grinding together and his cock was pushed up against some spongy, spectacular spot inside of me and I could feel it coming, could feel the oncoming pulse of electricity, building and building and building, just like a tidal wave, just waiting to crest and crash and _oh, fuck_.

"_Tom_!" I cried out.

I could feel my body moving jerkily, without any direction from my brain, could feel his hands roving over my skin, petting, stroking, guiding me through the tremors and the aftershocks, even as he whispered in my ear—

"So good for me, so fucking good for me, come on, just like that, you're fucking gorgeous when you come—"

I went boneless in his arms.

"Tom," I said again, utterly spent.

He wasn't done, though, hadn't stopped moving, thrusting, harder and deeper and faster, and the muscles in his back were tenser and tighter and his breathing had gone erratic and his hips were stuttering, falling out of rhythm, but he was still _talking_, an endless stream of barely coherent words that I wanted so very fucking badly to understand—

"Yeah, fuck, _fuck_, Hermione, I'm going to—_I can't stop I can't stop I can't stop it_," he babbled, pushing and pulling my hips, forcing me to grind down. "You feel—you feel too good, I fucking—I can't stop—_Hermione_, please—I want you to—I _want_ you—I need you to—I can't stop—I'm fucking _coming_—"

And then our eyes were locked and his gaze was _dark_, prepossessing, pinned into mine with a forceful kind of intensity that I didn't want to fixate on, didn't want to acknowledge; because there was something else there, something sharp and toxic, almost triumphant, like he had gotten exactly what he'd wanted, slithered around and beneath and straight through the rules, and no one had bothered to catch him.

I ignored it.

But I felt him come, a sudden spurt of scalding liquid heat deep, deep inside of me, and I was taken aback by how _good _it all was, how I instinctively leaned forward, leaned into him, unwilling to separate even as his cock pulsed one last time and he let out a satisfied groan, long and loud and _right_.

"Hermione," he murmured, his lips tilting up at the corners. "_Hermione_."

I wanted to savor that moment. I wanted to capture it, lock it up, keep it close—and I would, I knew that, the same way I knew that I wasn't allowed to have him, not for forever, and that he wouldn't move on from me, not after I was gone.

"I don't want to move," I complained, resting my forehead against his. "I just want to stay like this. Can we do that?"

He snorted softly.

"I imagine you'll change your mind in a few minutes. You can't be comfortable like that."

I released a petulant sigh.

"Is that a no?"

"Of course it isn't," he replied, dragging a thumbnail over the sensitive skin at the base of my neck. "I can't—you have to know that I can't say no to you."

My heartbeat stuttered.

It was bittersweet.

"I was so _angry_ when he threatened you," I admitted. "When he implied that he would—that he's planning to hurt you. I couldn't—even if it would be better if he did win, even if it would be safer for me—I don't think that I could…I don't think that I could stand it."

It was cathartic, saying it all out loud—almost like a declaration. I didn't let that thought linger. He smoothed his palms down the evenly spaced bumps of my vertebrae.

"He isn't going to win," he promised again. "But come on, we should clean up. Then you should get some sleep. You should—you can stay here. If you'd like."

I scooted backwards, wincing as he slipped out of me and a steady stream of cum trickled down the inside of my thigh.

"Will you—" I broke off. I cleared my throat. I tried again. "Will you stay with me?"

He stood up, naked, and picked up his discarded shirt. He used one of the sleeves to wipe down his lower abdomen before holding it out to me.

"What did I say about being able to tell you no?" he asked with a smirk.

I took the shirt. He sat down next to me.

"That isn't really an answer," I reminded him, rolling my eyes.

He watched me use the hem of the shirt to clean gingerly between my legs. His expression was strangely blank.

"I'll always stay with you," he said quietly. "I shouldn't _have _to give you an answer."

I threw his shirt in the vague direction of his laundry hamper.

"Yeah," I replied with an uneasy shrug, "but you've never said it before."

He didn't respond. When I turned to face him, he was staring at my stomach.

"Tom?"

He started.

"What?"

I furrowed my brow.

"Are you okay? You were sort of…staring," I said carefully.

Something complicated flashed across his face. I couldn't even begin to decipher what it meant.

"I'm fine," he replied. He reached out and brushed his thumb under the curve of my chin. "I was just thinking."

I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"About what?"

He glanced down at my lap.

"I can't…I can't let you go back, Hermione," he answered, his voice hoarse. "I can't let you go. I'm—I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry that I can't…I'm _sorry_, Hermione."

I cocked my head to the side.

"Tom," I said slowly, "you're not making any sense."

He hunched his shoulders.

"Not right now, maybe," he said with an odd sort of half-smile, settling back into his pillows and pulling his duvet up and over his hips. "But you'll understand soon, I think. I hope."

I thought about pressing the issue. I thought about the tightness of his facial muscles and the remorseful glint in his eyes as he'd studied me. I thought about how adamant he was that I stay with him—_forever_, he seemed to want me to stay with him _forever_—and how impossible that was going to turn out to be.

I closed my eyes.

I crawled into his bed.

"I'm staying here right now," I said, nuzzling into the side of his neck. "And so are you. I don't think I'll be able to sleep if you leave. But if Slughorn says anything later, you're going to have to buy me a ring."

He chuckled and wrapped his arms around me.

"What makes you think I haven't already?" he asked teasingly.

I folded my hands against his bare chest, snuggling closer.

"Because," I yawned sleepily, "you don't do anything without a reason. And you don't have a reason to buy me a ring. Not yet."

I was almost exhausted enough to not notice the way his entire body seemed to freeze when he registered exactly what it was that I had said.

Almost—

But I fell asleep—safe, warm, anchored—before I could ask him what was wrong.

OOO


	18. XVII

**Nightmare**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: This is kind of the part of the story where shit gets real. (_Sort of_.) I've given up on my outline altogether, so I'm not going to even try to estimate how many chapters are left—if you held me at gunpoint, I might say ten, but seriously, the two-sentence summary I have in my head of how this story ends could very easily wind up taking six whole chapters to get through. Pacing is actually something I'm really, really good at but it's generally almost entirely instinctual; my brain does not like to share with the class when it comes to how it knows when to do fundamental things like stop writing. It is annoying. And frustrating. And one of the many reasons that writing full-length anything is a lot like putting together a gigantic fucking trillion-piece puzzle without any hints, clues, or instructions.

That said, this is by far the most ambitious thing I've ever done, plot-wise, and that includes the two original novels I have already completed. When I first drew up the outline for this story I was kind of like, "Nope, not ever happening," because there were more than three characters and there was a lot of mysterious mind-fuckery and I wasn't really sure that I could do it justice—but it's been good for me, I think, to branch out. (It also means that my agent now has me sketching out plans for a TRILOGY that may or may not involve underground fraternities at prestigious Ivy League schools. With secrets. And murders. And an innocent incoming freshman named Cressida who is in way over her head and FALLS IN LOVE WITH THE BAD GUY. I have a type. OBVIOUSLY.)

(Which is hysterically funny because I am married to a guy who uses sock puppets on a regular basis to converse with his patients. Like, he went to medical school. He knows Latin. He has a job that requires him to use SCALPELS and I have actually heard him say 'I had to ask for the bone saw' without any kind of sarcastic inflection. But—SOCK PUPPETS, GUYS. _SOCK PUPPETS_. HOW CAN YOU TAKE THAT SERIOUSLY? I JUST. NO. YOU CAN'T. IT IS NOT A THING THAT CAN BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY.)

I don't know what the point of this was. At all. I'm going to try harder to get chapters up more quickly, but they're getting longer and longer and it's difficult to write, edit, re-write, and then re-edit close to ten thousand words in less than a few weeks. Especially when I have so many other things I'm trying to write, haha. But I'll try. And thank you to all of you who, like, religiously review every chapter. Most of the feedback I get on my original stuff is basically only from my agent, who is a snarky gay man who makes way too many pop culture references, so it's nice to hear from people who aren't him. (Although he's probably reading this. And leaving anonymous reviews. Because he is a creeper. Also, I have seen the Sterek fanfiction bookmarks on his tablet's internet browser. YOU CAN'T HIDE FROM ME, THEODORE. I KNOW WHAT YOU DO.)

Anyway. I'm so sorry for this. I ramble. It's a thing. Shut up. I am a DELIGHT.

Enjoy!

xoxo Andrea

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

_October 21, 1944_

_ She is mine._

_**Mine**__._

_ And I am still not entirely sure how it happened._

_ She was laughing, and then she was crying, and then she was __**complaining**__—whining, really—and then—_

_ It's strange, I think, that I can pinpoint the precise moment where it all changed. I had opened my mouth to say something dismissive about her compulsive desire to trust __**Dumbledore**__, of all people—but I had stopped, paused, become distracted—because her eyes had been wide open, shiny with recently shed tears, lacquered amber porcelain pretty enough to be startling—and she had looked confused, yes, maybe even a tiny bit desperate; but she had also looked __**resigned.**_

_ I possess enough social awareness to understand that her emotional capitulation should not have been as arousing as it ultimately was. However—it was __**intoxicating**__, that feeling of finally, __**finally **__winning her over, of finally getting what I wanted all along. It was perfect. It was overwhelming. It was—__**too much**__._

_I got reckless._

_ I pushed her, my tone vacillating between accusatory and indignant—it was not difficult to keep going, to keep needling, the words practically __**dripping**__ off of my tongue—until I lost control. __**God**__. The things I said—I never intended for her to know the levels of depravity to which I would sink should she ever be harmed. I am not unused to violence. I am familiar with the impulse to cause pain, to rend flesh from bone and make the agony fucking __**last**__. And blood is…easy. People have the tendency to view physical pain as some kind of psychologically damaging trauma; it is an interesting reaction, one that I have always equated with weakness, but Hermione is separate from that. __**Better **__than that. And I was afraid, for an improbably never-ending second, that I had made a dreadful error in providing an unfiltered explanation of how very much she means to me._

_She surprised me, though._

_She was not frightened._

_She was not repulsed._

_No—_

_She gave __**up **__on all of that. She gave up on fighting me, fighting __**this**__—it was beautiful to watch her eyelids flutter shut, one last floundering shot at staying loyal to some distant, fading memory of whoever she was before this, before __**me**__. And it was beautiful to watch her forehead crinkle, stave off a frown, imply that tears, distress, and sorrow were imminent—except her gaze was hard when her eyes finally opened, __**determined**__ and __**defiant **__in a way that I had never seen before—not from her, at least. _

_It was like being introduced to an entirely new person._

_It was like meeting her for __**real**__, without pretense or judgment. _

_ She gave me what I wanted._

_ And her memories—_

_ She was magnificent. She __**is **__magnificent. There have been glimmers, of course. I have known for some time that she is not unintelligent. I have commented before on her tenacity and her bravery and a host of other traits that matter much less to me than the astonishingly neat efficiency of how her brain is organized—she is __**brilliant**__, truly, and I am unashamed to admit that my first thought upon discovering the extent of her brilliance was how __**valuable **__she will be now that she is on my side. (In the future, she manages to create extended, personalized variations of a shield charm to hide from me—from my __**magic**__—for eight fucking months. __**Eight months**__. How—did she even realize what she was showing me? Did she even realize what it __**meant**__?)_

_ And Dumbledore treated her as nothing so much as a sentient encyclopedia. Her friends—boys, two of them—had little to no appreciation for her intellect. They did not comprehend it. But they loved her, I think. There was camaraderie, quite a lot of laughter, and genuine affection in most of their interactions. Her memories of them were also __**saturated **__with a crippling sort of fondness—it was difficult to stomach, especially after seeing how they died. I killed one of them, actually. And I was __**smug **__about it. Except—_

_ It wasn't __**really **__me._

_ I have not allowed myself to think about how my own future appeared. (Or, at least, the future that she originally lived. It will not be the same the next time around. Not for her, and certainly not for me. I will make sure of that.) _

_ What I saw of myself—_

_ It was disturbing. _

_ Hermione has said, more than once, that I am not the type of person to do anything without a reason. And she is not wrong. _

_ But the man I turn into—_

_ It was all just so __**senseless**__. There was no finesse, no cleverness—it was just violence on top of violence on top of violence, usually without provocation, without __**reason**__—I did not understand what I was seeing. I was catering to the beliefs—the __**whims**__—of people so terrified of me they could not even speak my __**name**__. It was the very opposite of what I have planned for myself. It was the very opposite of absolute power, no matter what I called myself, no matter what I claimed. _

_ 'Murderer' is not a label that bothers me overmuch. I am already a murderer. Once on purpose, once on accident—and I have no doubt that I will kill again. I am made for it. I have no qualms about taking a life. But it is not __**fun**__. It is not a __**hobby**__. Killing is about sending a message. Killing is about taking out an enemy. When, I wonder, do I begin to think otherwise? When does it become something I do simply because I __**can**__?_

_ It is not easy to hypothesize how, exactly, everything goes wrong for me. I was out of control. I was powerful. I considered myself invincible—__**seven **__horcruxes; bloody fucking hell—and I surrounded myself with half-crazed myopic __**leeches **__who cared very little for my existence beyond the fact that I let them take and torment unsuspecting muggles._

_ I just—_

_ It must be complicated. Because fifty years is a long time; it is not that farfetched, I suppose, to consider that I eventually turn into someone…unrecognizable. Magic is seductive. Toying with Purebloods and their precious, primitive principles—it is a slippery slope, I know that better than anyone. But I never imagined myself capable of falling prey to it. I have mocked and degraded Grindewald for ages, all on the basis of his own obviously flawed ideology—it is not sensible, after all, to alienate ninety percent of the population when your endgame is world domination. Even if you want to promise the remaining ten percent something that sounds rather a lot like fucking __**Utopia**__._

_ And Muggle-born prejudice—that was never supposed to be long-term. I'm a fucking half-blood, for fuck's sake. As much of a secret as that is now, I have never deluded myself into believing that I could keep it one indefinitely. And I want the Ministry. I want Britain and I want Europe and short of turning the entire Western hemisphere into a war zone—a state that my future self has no apparent problems with—I know that I would never be able to __**sustain **__that sort of power if I abused it. If I was anything but politically moderate. People are supposed to be intimidated by me. People are supposed to respect that I am smarter, stronger, more powerful—but not like __**that**__. I treat my Knights poorly, yes, but they do not __**matter**__. They are a dying breed, a minority so blinded by their own ancestral shadows they cannot see that they are nothing to me, tools to be used and discarded and __**forgotten**__ in the aftermath._

_ I do not want to know when that changed. _

_I do not want to know __**how **__that changed._

_ Because I dislike chaos. I plan and I organize and there are __**steps**__ to follow, always steps to follow, and my only concession to what I saw in the future is that I absolutely __**would **__stop at nothing, would inevitably __**do**__**anything**__ to achieve my goals—I do not possess a traditional conscience. There are few lines I would not dare to cross—I end up making __**seven **__fucking horcruxes, Christ—but I am still—there is not—what I turn into—_

_ There was…an absence of humanity._

_ A significant, very obvious void._

_ And while I rarely trouble myself with notions of morality—my skin right now is smooth and warm and unblemished. There is a proud, persistent pulse at the base of my left wrist. I breathe oxygen and I bleed thick, syrupy crimson when I get a paper-cut and I am __**alive**__, physically aware of being alive, and I am, perhaps, only just now realizing how unwilling I am to sacrifice that. I do not want what I saw in her memories. I do not want an unnatural body, made up almost entirely of magic, and an unfeeling apathy for anything that even approximates civilization. I want to keep breathing. I want to keep bleeding. I want to keep fucking Hermione, and I want to __**feel **__it, every single time, feel how wet she is, how much she wants me, how tight she gets when she comes and how good it is when I finally let go—_

_God, I want to keep that. _

_ It is useless to continue speculating, however. I will fix it. I will not—it will be different this time. But first—there are other problems that require my attention. _

_ Grindewald._

_ Dumbledore._

_ Malfoy._

_ Fucking __**Malfoy**__._

_ I am concerned about him._

_ Not for his wellbeing—no, at this point, I'd open up the bloody Chamber again just to have a place to stash his corpse. __**Honestly**__. However, his behavior has become increasingly more erratic in the past few days. He no longer stares at Hermione with that pitiful, lovelorn expression I've come to __**so**__ enjoy mocking; rather, he stares at her like he's __**hungry**__. Like he's biding his time. It is…unpalatable. And fuels my certainty that he has planned __**something**__ involving her and his own poorly sketched ideas of revenge. Which I would normally find exasperating, not worrisome, but—_

_ There is a chance that he has outside help._

_ I have no proof that he was behind the kidnapping attempt in September; the Macmillan squib was not particularly forthcoming when I interrogated him. But from what Lestrange implied about how he'd found Hermione—it is clear that someone paid Macmillan quite a bit of money to do nothing more than scare her. Her dress was torn, yes, but she was rather suspiciously unharmed beyond that. He also had no way of transporting her anywhere—he could not Apparate, nor could he feasibly carry her unconscious body nearly half a mile to the gates of the school—which I can only surmise meant that he was waiting for someone to find them. _

_ And it would be just __**like **__Malfoy to stage a kidnapping so he could play the knight in shining armor and fucking __**pretend**__ to rescue her. If I hadn't needed him out of the way that night—he __**would **__have been the one to find her, not Lestrange, and she actually might have—_

_ No._

_ She would not have._

_ She was mine, even then. _

_ She said there was a note. On her bed. Malfoy would not have had time to put it there—he had only just got in from quidditch practice when I found him. And then…he was incapacitated. He would have had to have an accomplice. Lestrange? Nott? Avery? It would be easy enough to get one of them to admit to it, but I doubt they were actually involved. _

_ Although—_

_ If Malfoy is really that stupid, I cannot use him. I trust Lestrange—Hermione is strangely fond of him despite her experience with his progeny—but he has too many connections in southern France to make him a viable candidate for espionage. It might be worth scrapping that part of the plan altogether. Especially if Hermione is going to be picked up and brought to Grindewald's headquarters once a fortnight. _

_ It is all so exhausting to think about._

_ And there is so very __**much **__to think about._

_-TMR_

OOO

Early Friday morning, Slughorn was waiting for me in the Slytherin common room. His normally jolly demeanor was subdued and sour, his round, rosy cheeks tinged with grey, and his eyes were a dull, almost unfocused, shade of brown. His waistcoat was his customary bright purple satin, shiny brass buttons straining over his stomach, but his hair was greasy and unkempt, giving the appearance of having had an impatient, thick-fingered hand run repeatedly through it, over and over and over again. He looked tired. He looked _distraught_.

"Good morning, Professor," I greeted him warily. I chanced a glance at Tom, who was standing to my left. Our fingers were entwined. His face stayed impassive.

"Oh, Miss Granger, _there _you are!" Slughorn exclaimed, his voice tense. "I've been looking for you all morning."

There was an awkward silence. Tom's hand briefly tightened around mine.

"I'm sorry, Professor, I had no idea," I replied, clearing my throat. My cheeks burned. "Tom was—ah—helping me study last night, and we lost track of the time and ended up falling asleep. We only just woke up. Is anything the matter?"

Slughorn's eyebrows twitched.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Tom, my dear boy, I didn't even see you there. I'd almost forgotten you and Miss Granger were—well, it's marvelous either way, marvelous indeed. In fact, I was just telling Albus the other day that I'd bet him ten galleons our young Mr. Riddle would be coming to speak with him by the time the Christmas holidays roll around—rumor has it the two of you are nearly _inseparable_—and, oh, don't look _bashful_, dearest, our Head Boy is quite the catch I'll have you know, absolutely brilliant young man, and if he isn't the next Minister of Magic I'll give myself right up to retirement, indeed I will!"

Tom's eyes widened. My mouth fell open.

"That's very kind of you to say, sir," Tom said, quickly collecting himself and flashing a modest smile. "And you'll be the very first to know should there be any…news. Well—besides Hermione, of course. She might have to know before you do."

Slughorn chuckled merrily. His gaze, though, stayed flat.

"Of course, my boy, of course," he chortled, wiping a fluttering hand across the bottom half of his face. "But, Tom, if you'd be a good lad and head off to breakfast? I need to speak with Hermione for just a moment, shouldn't take too terribly long, just a few questions and she'll be right on her way."

Tom's posture stiffened.

"Is something wrong, sir?" he asked, his tone neutral. I could feel his fingers twitch, as if they were missing the weight of his wand. "Because—and please, forgive me for being forward, but you don't look well."

Slughorn sighed.

"Well, as long as it stays between the three of us, I don't suppose there's any real harm in telling you, too, Tom," he said. "It's the Macmillan girl. Melania. She was brought in to the hospital wing yesterday afternoon by dear, dear Abraxas. She'd been…_poisoned_. Nasty business, really—another few hours and even my most potent antidote would have been useless."

My whole body jerked, like I'd been shocked by a thousand volts of electricity.

"How—how long had she been…" I trailed off.

Tom rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb.

"Overnight, at least," Slughorn answered mournfully. "It most likely happened late Wednesday night. Poor girl—if someone had just noticed _sooner_…she could have been spared so very much agony."

I flinched.

"Do you know what type of poison was used, sir?" Tom pressed. I looked at him sharply. He sounded intent.

"No, no, my boy, by the time she was brought in her symptoms had grown too…ah, _aggressive_…to get an accurate assessment," Slughorn replied. "It's a remarkable shame, though, and we're all so _baffled_, of course—she's such a _sweet_ girl, who would want to…who would even _think _to…?"

Tom's expression flickered.

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, what exactly _were _her symptoms?"

Slughorn fidgeted anxiously.

"Ah, they were of the stomach variety, Tom, vastly unpleasant, I'm certain the dear girl wouldn't want me to elaborate beyond that," he said. "But, I really did need to ask Miss Granger if she had seen anything, ah, _untoward_? Anything suspicious? The school itself is on lockdown, of course, although if you ask _my _opinion it's much too late to do any good—but this is a serious enough matter that the headmaster—and the girl's family, they were notified just last night—doesn't believe this was merely a, ah, prank gone wrong, so to speak…regardless, Hermione, dearest, did Melania mention anything recently? Perhaps…an argument with another student? A lovers' quarrel? Anything at all?"

I shook my head. Tom squeezed my hand. It felt like a warning. I wondered why.

"N-no," I managed to get out. "I was—preoccupied, and Melania and I never really spent very much time together. I didn't—no, I didn't notice anything odd. She didn't say anything."

Slughorn visibly deflated.

"I see," he murmured. "That's most disappointing. I was hoping—the headmaster and Professor Dumbledore are insisting that our culprit is a Slytherin, and I—well, I was so _hopeful _that you might be able to provide some information that would…disprove such a theory. I simply cannot imagine one of our own doing something so _ghastly_. It's _incomprehensible_."

I toyed with the knot of my tie.

"Of course, sir," I agreed. "It's absolutely—incomprehensible."

Tom cleared his throat.

"Well, sir, I would be more than happy to do my duty as Head Boy and assist you all in the investigation, should you need any help," he offered. "I understand that this is a trying time, but a lot of the younger students might be more comfortable speaking with me rather than going directly to the headmaster."

"What a splendid idea, my boy," Slughorn replied, reaching forward to pat Tom on the shoulder. "I'm sure that the headmaster would appreciate the help, yes indeed. I'll excuse you from your morning classes and you can go up to see him. Which reminds me—Hermione, dearest, your uncle asked me to retrieve you for him. He made it sound rather urgent—but that's just Albus, I suppose, he can be so very _mysterious_ when he wants to be, it's positively maddening—however, I do not have the time to escort you, I have a class full of second-years just _raring _to blow up another set of cauldrons—Tom, my boy, do you think you could spare a moment and take her to Professor Dumbledore's office on your way to see the headmaster?"

I badly wanted to roll my eyes.

"Of course, sir," Tom drawled. "I wouldn't dream of allowing Hermione to wander about the castle alone. Not after what happened to poor Melania."

Slughorn beamed at him.

"Marvelous," he said, clicking open his pocket watch. "I'll just—oh, dear, is _that _the time? I must be off, my boy! Both of you, though, have a _superb_ day and _do_ try to visit poor Melania in the hospital wing when you get the chance—you know, set an example—the Lestrange boy was there early this morning, what's his—_Edmond_, yes, that's the one, but I really must dash, I'm awfully late as it is—"

The common room door swung shut behind him with a muted thud. It echoed in the ensuing silence. Tom and I were alone.

"Who did it?" I asked.

He didn't look at me.

"I don't know."

I wrenched my hand out of his grasp.

"Who do you _think _did it, then?"

He licked his lips.

"I'd like to say it was Malfoy, but—" he broke off, holding open the door.

I gritted my teeth and followed him into the hallway.

"Edmond," I guessed bitterly. "You think it was Edmond."

He reached for my hand. A group of sixth-year Ravenclaws walked past us. I didn't pull away.

"I don't _know_, Hermione," he ground out. "It could have been anyone, and I—Macmillan isn't _important_. None of this makes any sense. It could be a distraction, I suppose, but for what?"

The hallways were crowded. I moved closer.

"What if she was important?" I mused. "What if someone was using her for something—like, I don't know, _spying on you and I_—and they knew we would never expect it to be her? Who would you guess did this if that was the case?"

He scowled.

"She isn't working for Grindewald, sweetheart," he said, tugging at my hand and leading me around a corner. "I don't think you understand how very little anyone even _cares _about her. She is a nonentity. She is utterly, commonly average. And her petty fixation with _you_, while disturbing, is based on nothing more than typical adolescent jealousy. She isn't—no one would _use _her for anything. There would be no point. She doesn't even have any _friends_. Who talks to her? Who would give her information? It wouldn't make sense."

I snorted.

"You haven't thought about it, then?" I asked sarcastically.

He glanced down at me.

"Of course I've thought about it," he returned. "She slept five feet away from you. You _lived _with her. And if there was even the most remote possibility of her being dangerous, do you actually believe that she would still be breathing?"

My lips parted.

"Oh."

"Yeah," he said. "_Oh_. I just—talk to Dumbledore. Try to find out how much Malfoy knows, and how involved they are with each other. Go straight to class when you're done with him. It won't look right if I don't go along with whatever Dippet wants—I'd be surprised if the bloody Ministry wasn't already here—so I can't stay with you today. Just—don't be alone with anyone. Especially not Lestrange. Or Malfoy. I know that you can take care of yourself, but—do not play nice. Do not hesitate."

I didn't bother asking what he meant. I knew.

"You'll find me, though? When you're done?"

We were outside of Dumbledore's office. He turned to face me, dropping my hand and using his own to gently cup the curve of my jaw. His thumb brushed the underside of my chin.

"I'll always find you," he smirked, leaning down to rest his forehead against mine. His breath was warm and familiar and slightly sweet. I did not want him to leave.

I bit back a giggle.

"You do realize how creepy that sounds, don't you?" I teased, curling my fingers into the belt loops on his trousers.

His nose twitched.

"If I was a Pureblood, you'd already have my ring on your finger," he murmured, stealing a kiss. "And then I'd be able to summon you directly to my side any time I wished. Is that more, or less, creepy?"

I pressed my lips against his, let my tongue dart out, needing to taste—he groaned when I pulled back, his teeth latched onto my lower lip, and I couldn't help but shiver.

"More, definitely," I whispered into his mouth. "I—I'll miss you."

He smiled. It reached his eyes.

"I'll see you soon, sweetheart. Be careful."

He leaned in for one last kiss, running the back of his hand down my cheek, and then left. I watched him go, feeling oddly bereft. I tucked my hair behind my ears and reminded myself that it hadn't been a goodbye.

I knocked on Dumbledore's office door.

"Come in!" he called out.

I paused.

_Do not play nice. _

_Do not hesitate. _

I twisted the doorknob.

"Good morning, Professor," I greeted him coolly as I walked forward.

Dumbledore stood up from behind his desk.

"Miss Granger," he replied, bemused. "Rather early for a visit, isn't it?"

I settled into a chintz-covered armchair.

"Professor Slughorn said that you wanted to see me," I said, neatly crossing my ankles. "Was there a specific time he forgot to mention?"

He sat down again. He appeared puzzled.

"I asked Horace to find you yesterday afternoon," he explained. "I would have looked for you myself, you understand, but discretion was of the utmost importance. And I am afraid that if I were to ever set foot inside the Slytherin common room, there might, in fact, be a mutiny."

I folded my hands together.

"You asked for me after Melania was found? Or before?"

He tilted his head to the side.

"After, of course," he answered.

I hummed.

"It's remarkable, isn't it, that Abraxas was the one to find her?" I asked, my tone casual. "A bit out of character, I think—he's not exactly the sort to even _notice _if a fellow student is missing, let alone go off to search for them—but still…very admirable."

He tensed.

"He could have been looking for you," he pointed out. "Horace has mentioned more than once how smitten he is."

"Oh, I saw Abraxas before breakfast, Professor," I replied blithely. "He knew precisely where I was yesterday. All day. And night, if you want to get technical."

His gaze was razor sharp behind his spectacles.

"Well, then."

I clenched my jaw.

"Indeed."

He motioned to a porcelain tray at the end of his desk.

"Tea, Miss Granger?"

"No, thank you," I responded lightly. "What is it that you wanted to talk to me about, Professor?"

His hands were steady as he poured himself a steaming cup of tea.

"Oh, I was simply…_concerned_," he said. "I've heard that you've made quite a few friends in Slytherin. I'm glad you're fitting in so well."

I forced a laugh.

"You're concerned that I've made friends and am fitting in as well as I am?"

He chuckled. It sounded wrong.

"I'm glad," he repeated. "Your social success reflects well on your upbringing. Your family would be proud."

I stared at him.

"Tom _knows_ that I'm muggle-born," I said, angrily twisting the hem of my skirt.

He smiled. It was condescending.

"I'm glad, Miss Granger," he said again.

He took a dainty sip of tea. His office was quiet. He'd drawn the curtains on the room's only window and dappled flecks of sunlight were streaming in through the trees outside. A fine layer of dust coated the bookshelf that stood to my left. His fireplace was full of charred black wood. His clock, I noticed, was no longer ticking.

_Do not play nice._

_ Do not hesitate._

"You were using me to try and trap Grindewald, weren't you?" I blurted out.

He heaved a tired sigh.

"Yes," he agreed simply.

I expected him to elaborate. He didn't.

"You put me in danger," I continued, my voice shaking. "_On purpose_. You were willing to _sacrifice me_—and for _what_? A _chance _at killing him?"

He tapped his fingers together.

"You would have been safe, Miss Granger," he informed me somberly. "At least, you would have been safe _before _you integrated yourself with young Mr. Riddle. I cannot help you now, unfortunately. His trouble is his own."

A disbelieving sound was wrenched from the back of my throat.

"You _encouraged _me to befriend him! You practically threw me in his lap!"

He shook his head.

"Gellert was uninterested in you at first," he replied, shifting uncomfortably in his armchair. "I thought—correctly, as it happens—that you might be able to capture his attention should you be…_involved_ with our illustrious Head Boy. Tom has a reputation in certain circles, you understand. But I also assumed—however erroneously—that you would be unable, or, at the very least, _unwilling _to fall prey to Mr. Riddle's particular brand of charisma, considering your history. I was…quite wrong. I am not such a proud old man that I cannot admit that to you."

My lips twisted in a grimace.

"And let me guess—you were also the one to tell Abraxas Malfoy that putting a _Pureblood promise ring _on my finger was a good idea?" I demanded, my heartbeat a strong and steady and furious thud against my eardrums.

"It is unlikely you will ever return to the future, Miss Granger," he answered calmly. "And Mr. Malfoy, despite his occasionally abrasive exterior, has always meant well where you are concerned. You could do much worse."

I furrowed my brow.

_He doesn't know_, I realized suddenly, my stomach seizing with something that might have been panic. _He doesn't know that Grindewald was the one who brought me here to begin with_.

"That's—" I broke off. _Presumptuous_, I wanted to say. _Devious. Idiotic._ Instead, I didn't finish. I looked down, away, my gaze locked on a threadbare patch of royal blue carpet.

"I understand, Miss Granger, why you might be angry with me right now," he added. "But—"

"It was for the _Greater Good_," I finished, something rabid and fierce twisting to life inside my gut.

He reached up to adjust his spectacles, pushing them back on his nose.

"Mr. Riddle is not the answer to your problems, Miss Granger," he said somberly. "If he were to become master of the Elder Wand—he cannot be trusted. Surely you see that."

I was incredulous.

"And what if I was the one to take mastery of it?" I demanded. "Can I not be trusted, either?"

He didn't respond.

I slowly got to my feet.

_Do not play nice._

_ Do not hesitate._

"Do you know why Grindewald didn't care about me until I started seeing Tom?" I asked, my voice devoid of feeling. "Because he's scared of _Tom_. He's scared of what _Tom_ can do to him. _Not you_. You have _ceased _to be intimidating to him. You've _used _me and you've kept _secrets_ and you think that I should _respect that _because you _know better_! Because _your _morals are somehow worth more than everyone else's. Because you're the only person in the entire world capable of being _selfless_."

"Miss Granger," he began.

"_No_," I snapped, "I'm not _done yet_, Professor. These—these _things _you do—for the _Greater Good_, whatever that means—they got my best friend _killed. _You lied to him, to _us_, and you never explained how anything _worked_, and you kept him uninformed and undereducated and you _justified it_ to yourself by saying that you had a _plan_. And then he _died_, he was _murdered_, and all because he had _no idea what he was doing_! You never trusted that anyone else would be able to understand the _magnitude _of your brilliant, _brilliant _scheming, and _my best friend _was the _casualty _of your ridiculously inflated ego. And—I can't do it again. I won't do it again. I _refuse _to let that happen to me."

He regarded me for long, uneven moment. His eyes were troubled.

"I was not responsible for the death of your friend, Miss Granger," he finally replied. "I believe that responsibility lies solely with young Mr. Riddle."

His words hit me like a physical blow; hard and fast, a wide-open slap to the face, and they fucking _stung_, tiny, burning pinpricks of unexpected, overwhelming pain. I felt off-balance. I felt as if I was standing in an inch-deep puddle of acid, the carpet disintegrating, the hardwood floor peeling apart, and I was _sinking_, losing ground, I didn't know how to fix it, stop it—I was running out of time, and it hurt.

"I should get going," I said. The contours of my mouth were smooth and warm as I ran my tongue along the ridge of my teeth. "I have classes."

He stood up. His teacup clattered in its porcelain dish as he carelessly pushed it away.

"I was informed that Miss Macmillan woke up this morning," he remarked, his lips turned down at the corners. "You might consider visiting with her on your way to class. She mentioned to me how very much she would like to see you."

My facial muscles tightened. Abruptly, I thought I might be close to tears.

"I'll do that," I said numbly. "Thank you for the…advice, Professor. Have a good morning."

I chanced a glance back as I moved to open the door.

He looked conflicted.

He looked regretful.

He looked _sad_.

I left anyway.

OOO

Her skin was pasty and her eyes were tired. Her hair was hanging in dull, lank waves down and around her shoulders. She was clearly sick. I cautiously approached her bed in the hospital wing, the curtains surrounding it hanging open in the dim, late-morning light—she was frail, infirm, and I still did not trust her.

"Hello, Melania," I said, moving to stand next to the mountain of pillows she was propped up with.

She offered me a weak, watery sort of smile.

"Hermione," she returned. "I didn't think you'd come."

I pursed my lips.

"Uncle Albus said that you'd mentioned wanting to see me?"

She blinked.

"I—yes, I did say that, didn't I?" she tittered.

_Do not play nice._

_ Do not hesitate._

"Why?" I asked bluntly. "Why would you want to see me?"

She winced.

"I…haven't been very nice to you," she said. "When we were all first-years, I was the only girl sorted into Slytherin, and I never—I didn't make friends. Not really. I grew up with Edmond and Abraxas, though, and I know it doesn't seem like it, but we were close. Until they met Tom Riddle, at least."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"Abraxas was always kind to me," she went on. "Always. And I'm not stupid, I know—I know that he thinks I'm irritating, but—he was still _kind_. And I thought—he goes through girlfriends like they're _tissue paper_, Hermione, always has done, and I just—I thought, eventually, he would remember that we used to be friends. That he might notice me. Our fathers know each other, they've been talking about a betrothal for years…and it seemed—but then _you _showed up."

I arched a brow.

"Of course I did," I said flatly. "Look, Melania, if you're trying to get me to feel _sorry _for you—doing this while you're in a hospital bed, _honestly_—you can stop now."

"That isn't—I'm trying to _explain_," she argued.

I scoffed.

"Explain _what_?"

Her nostrils flared.

"Explain why I _hate _you!" she exclaimed, her cheeks blossoming with color. "Explain why I—why I—you tossed aside _Abraxas Malfoy _for _Tom Riddle_, Hermione, you've barely been here for two whole months and that—that was an _option _for you! Do you know how hard I've worked to just stay relevant to Abraxas' _life_? I'm always the first to visit him when he gets injured playing quidditch and I'm always the first to notice when he starts holing up in the library, usually towards the end of term, because he's failing all of his classes—I'm the only one who knows that he broke his nose tripping down the stairs at the Lestrange house when we were nine, that _that's_ why it's crooked, and I'm the only one who knows that he actually quite passionately _loathes _English tea, that he only drinks it because Tom Riddle told him during second-year that it'd look _off _if he didn't—and you—he just—it would be _different_ if you were like all the other ones, if you were vapid and beautiful and—but _Tom Riddle _noticed you and then Edmond came to me right before you—"

I stayed perfectly still.

"Right before what, Melania?" I asked slowly.

Her expression shattered, then, turned into something complicated and tragic and hard to decipher.

"I didn't think any of it mattered," she mumbled, refusing to meet my gaze. "I just—I hated you so _much_, I didn't think—who _would have_ thought, it was _Edmond Lestrange_, he's—he's weedy and unassuming and no one pays any attention to him at all! I thought—a prank, maybe, an easy way to get back at you for breaking Abraxas's heart and stealing him from me and—I didn't…"

"What are you _talking _about?"

"You don't—you don't understand," she said thickly. "I—Hermione, I'm sorry, please, I didn't mean to—I didn't think you were _important_, you don't understand, I just thought—I didn't mean for—you have to _listen_, please."

My hands were shaking. I balled them into tiny, ineffectual fists.

"What did you do?" I whispered.

Her eyes darted to the side.

"I just—you have to believe me, I didn't think that what I was doing…he said it was to help Abraxas see how horrible you were, and it was just _information_, silly things, really—what time you came back from seeing Tom, whether you still wore the Malfoy ring, who you talked to between classes—I didn't think it was _serious_."

I bit back a gasp.

"You—_you're _the spy?" I bleated.

She jerked back into her pillows.

"What? No! I'm not—no, I don't _work _for anyone, it was just Edmond Lestrange asking me questions about you, about your habits, and it didn't really make sense to me sometimes but he's Abraxas' best friend and—and—it was nice to have someone to complain to when you snuck in after curfew and no one said anything, and all because you're dating the Head Boy practically ten _minutes _after transferring here."

My head spun.

"Edmond," I repeated dully. "Edmond Lestrange asked you questions about me. How—when did he start?"

She bit her lip.

"About a month ago," she said, looking guilty. "Around the time you were attacked. It was—I think it was right before Abraxas got sick and had to stay in the hospital wing. I remember—Edmond wanted me to take him a basket, except it was empty, and when I asked what the point of it was, all he said was that Abraxas would know what it meant. I didn't—I didn't _know_, Hermione."

I felt, suddenly, like I was swimming. No. _Drowning_. I was drowning, trying to breathe underwater, sinking lower and lower and lower as my lungs filled up, up, _up_—

"And—now you think Edmond poisoned you? Tried to kill you? _What_?" I choked out.

Her shoulders slumped.

"No," she answered, wringing her hands. "Maybe. I don't—no. I don't think it was Edmond."

"Then—_who_, Melania? Who do you think it was?"

She stared at me.

"Tom Riddle came to see me that night, you know," she said quietly. "You weren't there, it was right after I got out of the shower—he said you were in the common room, but he needed my opinion on what type of chocolate I thought might be your favorite. I was just—do you even _know _how infuriating it is? Seeing _Tom Riddle _go absolutely _stupid _over you? I was so _angry_, but I couldn't very well _say _that, so I tasted them both and told him I thought you'd like the dark one best and he smiled and said thank you and that you probably wouldn't be back before I went to bed—and that's all I remember."

_He said you were in the common room. _

_ It was right after I got out of the shower._

_ He said you were in the common room._

_ He said you were in the common room._

_ He said you were_—

"It wasn't Edmond, then," I stated.

She gulped.

"No," she replied unsteadily. "It wasn't Edmond."

_He said you were in the common room._

"Did you tell anyone else? That Tom came to—that he gave you chocolate?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"No," she said. "Actually—Edmond came to see me here, before Slughorn or anyone even knew I was awake, and he said—he told me that I should keep Tom's visit to myself. That I would be—be in danger if I mentioned it."

_He said you were in the common room._

"Edmond…he knew? About Tom going to see you?"

Her gaze shifted.

"Yes," she replied. "He seemed anxious about it."

_He said you were in the common room._

_ She was brought into the hospital wing yesterday afternoon by dear, dear Abraxas._

_ Edmond came to see me here._

_ He said you were in the common room._

"And—Abraxas was the one who found you? Who brought you here?" I pressed.

Her lower lip quivered.

"Ye—yes," she stuttered. "Abraxas noticed that I wasn't in class and came to check on me. He thought I might be sick."

_He said you were in the common room._

_ Edmond came to see me here._

_ He said you were in the common room._

"You're lying," I whispered. "You—who are you lying for? Who told you to say this to me?"

She tensed. The scratchy thin hospital sheets crinkled between her fingertips.

"I—I'm not, Hermione."

_He said you were in the common room._

_ He said you were in the common room._

_ He said—_

"Look," I hissed, lifting my chin to glare down at her. "We both know that Abraxas Malfoy possesses about as much concern for your wellbeing as you do for mine. _None at all_. Not only would he never—_never_—notice whether or not you were in class, but he _certainly_ wouldn't go out of his way to find out if you were sick. He's too selfish for that. Which means that someone _told _him to find you—and you know who it was."

She finally met my eyes.

I was taken aback by her confidence.

And then she smirked.

"You really _are_ a stupid Gryffindor, aren't you?"

My tongue felt heavy, thick, ten times too big for my mouth—

_Edmond came to see me here._

_ Edmond came to see me here._

_ He said you were in the common room._

"He said he'd give me Abraxas," she continued pleasantly. "He said he'd give me Abraxas, and all I would have to do in return is give him _you_. I was supposed to turn you against Riddle, actually, which is what _this _was all about, but he said that it was okay if I didn't entirely succeed in that—that you're loyal to a bloody _fault_ and have no sense of self-preservation. He wasn't wrong, was he?"

I reached into the pocket of my skirt. She didn't notice.

_Edmond came to see me here._

"I didn't ask what he wanted with you—I don't particularly care, not really—and it took him ages to convince me to agree to be _poisoned_, of all things, but he needed a distraction, a way to separate you and Riddle, and I suppose there's nothing suspicious about a girl going to visit her recovering roommate in the hospital wing, is there?"

My fingers closed around the smooth, worn wood of my wand.

They clenched.

"Oh, and you should know something. Before he comes to get you. My cousin—the squib, the one with the horrible scar across his face—he was hired by Abraxas. He wasn't there to _kidnap you_, though. He was there to _pretend _to kidnap you. Abraxas wanted to rush in and save you—wanted to _slay the dragon_ and all that rot. My cousin was supposed to rough you up a bit, scare you senseless, make it look like you needed protecting. Idiotic plan, naturally—the only remarkable part about it is that Abraxas managed to get it all together without Riddle finding out."

I could have laughed, then.

Because things were finally starting to make sense, loose ends finally looping into complicated, unbreakable knots—and I had been right. I had been right all along. Abraxas was spoiled, entitled, and _dumb_. Edmond was sneaky, crafty, _clever_—and dangerous. Tom had been wrong to underestimate him. Tom had been wrong to _trust _him.

"I'm not an _idiot_, of course. I know that whatever he has planned for you is nefarious and underhanded and probably has _no_ chance of a happy ending—but after today you will _officially _no longer be my problem, so…I don't really care about that, either. You'll be gone. Abraxas will stop _pining_. Riddle will be gone, too, I think. I don't know how it's all going to work out. I'm not _involved_."

_ My cousin—the squib, the one with the horrible scar across his face—he was hired by Abraxas._

_ He said you were in the common room._

_ …supposed to rough you up, scare you senseless—_

_ He said you were in the common room._

My fingertips grazed the tip of my wand. It was warm.

"Abraxas wasn't alone in hiring your cousin, though, was he?"

Her eyebrows flew up.

"How—what are you talking about?"

My tongue darted out to wet my lips.

"He knew things about me," I responded, taking a step back from her bed. "Things that Abraxas would never have known. Was he—your cousin, I mean—was he the one who told you that Abraxas was behind it? The attack?"

She crinkled her nose.

"He's a squib," she said with obvious disdain. "We don't exactly _chat over tea_, Granger. I haven't spoken to him since I was a child."

I slid my wand out of my pocket.

"Then who told you? _Edmond_?"

She frowned at me.

"What does it—" she started to ask.

Except—

There was a second of noise and panic and pitiful screeching, fucking _Melania_, God, she sounded like a fucking _banshee_—and there were two sets of footsteps, one hurried and sure and one that sounded an awful lot like a stumble—and I spun around, wand still hidden between the pleats of my skirt, startled by who I saw—

"Stop talking _now_, Melania," Edmond Lestrange snapped.

Abraxas Malfoy stood in front of him, slightly to the left, his handsome face frozen in terror. Both of their Slytherin-green ties were undone, hanging loose around their necks. Their shirts weren't tucked in. Their trousers were wrinkled around the knees, as if they'd each been crouched down low for a long period of time. There was an ink stain on the side of Abraxas' neck. Edmond had a cherry red bruise on the underside of his jaw.

But then Edmond moved his left hand to swipe at the sweat pooling between his collarbones and it was the glint of a shiny silver blade that made my heartbeat trip over itself, begin an awkward stuttering rhythm, and I wondered, desperately, frantically, where Tom was.

"What's _he _doing here?" Melania demanded. "You said—"

Edmond kicked the back of Abraxas' thigh. Abraxas fell forward, bracing himself on his forearms.

"Collateral," Edmond answered dismissively. "I'm told that Granger has quite the bleeding heart."

I choked. Abraxas glanced over at me, pretty grey eyes lost amidst blown-wide pupils and an acrid, practically tangible sense of fear.

"Who—" I bleated.

"Don't act like you don't _know_, Granger," Edmond interrupted, hauling Abraxas up again by his elbow. "You know exactly who I'm doing all of this for. And you know exactly _why _I'm doing it, too. You weren't supposed to tell Riddle anything, were you?"

My stomach dropped.

"It was a test?"

Edmond pulled Abraxas back against his chest, running the flat side of the knife up and over and down the heavily muscled planes of Abraxas' abdomen. The effect was almost playful. I felt nothing but nauseated.

"_Obviously_," he drawled. "And you can quit playing the insipid Pureblood princess any time you want, darling. I figured you were _at least _sixty percent less stupid than you let on when Riddle took a genuine liking to you. Would've realized it sooner, but Malfoy here is—historically speaking—much less discerning about that type of thing."

I scrunched my nose up.

"What, precisely, are you going to do with me now? I was kidnapped much more gracefully and with far fewer theatrics on Wednesday night," I taunted.

Edmond jerked Abraxas even closer, pressing the tip of his knife into the ghostly white, paper-thin skin that covered Abraxas' pulse. I swallowed.

"You think everything's about you, don't you?" he sneered. "And here I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be _built _for selfless acts of valor. Fucking typical. Can't see past your own so-called _bravery _to recognize what a bunch of fucking _selfish_—_sanctimonious_—_arrogant_ fucking fuckwits you all are."

I flushed.

"_Fuck you_," I spat.

Edmond bared his teeth in grim facsimile of a smile.

"No, Granger, _fuck you_," he snarled. His hand started to shake. A dark red stream of blood trickled down Abraxas' throat. "You fucking waltzed in here, wide-eyed and innocent and so bloody _naïve_—I spent ages, at first, trying to figure out what your game was. Trying to figure out whose side you were on. But I was looking in all the wrong places, wasn't I? I thought you were spying on Tom for Dumbledore. I thought you were there to fucking _ruin us_."

He paused. He cocked his head to the side.

"But you didn't have a game, did you? You were just a silly little girl caught up in something she couldn't even _begin _to understand. I felt sorry for you, honestly. _You_. I fucking wanted to help! I wanted to—I wanted to _help you_, Granger. Do you understand that? I didn't think you _deserved _to end up with a fucking _monster_—but do you know what happened next? Do you? Have you guessed? I bet you have. You're such a _smart _girl, aren't you? So much smarter than you wanted any of us to believe."

My mouth went dry. Abraxas whimpered. Edmond kept talking.

"I got a note, Granger. Right after the Malfoy-instigated kidnapping that wasn't. It was waiting for me on my pillow when I came back from fucking rescuing you. Do you know what it said? Hmm? It said that you were a fucking _liar_. That you weren't related to Dumbledore at all. That you—"

He stopped talking, whipped his head around to stare at the door, expression flustered and afraid and stunned—_footsteps_, there were footsteps, echoing in the wide, white-tiled corridor that led to the hospital wing—

"Malfoy, get down!" I shouted, yanking out my wand.

Abraxas ducked. Melania screamed. The door flew open.

_Tom_.

It was always Tom. It was always going to be Tom.

"Are you fucking _serious_?" Tom roared into the sudden, pervasive silence.

Edmond swayed on his feet.

"Tom, I didn't mean to—"

Tom ignored him.

"_Really_, Lestrange? _Really_? You actually thought that you—_you_—could outsmart, outmaneuver, _me_? Me! You used the exact same poison on that fucking Macmillan twat that I used on _Malfoy_ four weeks ago! And you were too fucking _stupid _to even do it correctly. You nearly _killed her_. Did you think that was subtle? Did you think that I wouldn't notice? There's a fucking _Ministry inquiry_! Are you fucking _brain damaged_?"

Edmond dropped his knife. It clanged loudly as it hit the floor.

"I didn't—I was just supposed to take Granger somewhere you couldn't follow—it wasn't about _you_, Tom, not really, you have to—you have to believe me," Edmond sputtered, his face ashen.

Seconds passed. Tom methodically straightened his tie. I began to feel the first stirrings of hysteria bubble up in my abdomen.

"You're an idiot," Tom remarked bluntly. "And you're going to tell me _everything _that I haven't already guessed, and then you're going to die. But—before we get to that—_start fucking talking_."

Edmond froze. Melania released a broken-sounding sob.

"I don't—there isn't really anything to _tell_," Edmond hedged.

Tom glanced towards the ceiling, as if praying for patience.

"Since I'm—well, I'm _useless_, and I don't know anything, not _anything_, perhaps it would be best if you just let me go?" Melania interjected, voice uncertain and sickly sweet.

"_Shut up_, Melania," Edmond hissed at her. "Christ, can you just—"

Tom snapped his fingers.

"Right," he said conversationally. "That's it."

And then he was raising his wand and there was a moment—half a moment, even—of horrified _expectation_, and his gaze was sharp and hard and deadly, unwavering and unrelenting, like some kind of avenging wrathful _predator_—

"_Avada Kedavra_."

He didn't shout.

It wasn't loud.

He spoke with casual conviction; and the words felt strangely elegant, fucking _pretty_, reducing all of our bodies to deaf blind shadows, quivering in the preternatural, too-long flash of bright green light—because we were statues, _his _statues, and the jumbled, nonsensical chaos of the previous half-hour was gone, forgotten, _vanquished_, and for the first time since I had arrived in 1944, I was able to recognize _Voldemort_. I was able to see what must have been there all along, lying dormant, pretending to be dead, waiting to be released—

No one moved.

No one breathed.

No one looked away from him.

And then I was falling to my knees, brain buzzing and blood singing and muscles fucking _collapsing _from too much adrenaline—

I was laughing.

_No_—

I was crying.

_No_—

I was laughing, I couldn't fucking stop laughing, and there was a dead body somewhere in the room, _a dead fucking body_, and it wasn't funny and someone was dead and Tom had done it and I couldn't stop, I couldn't stop, I couldn't fucking stop—

I could not stop laughing.

I could not stop crying.

I could not _stop_.

OOO

**Author's Note**: Don't worry—everything gets explained. Eventually. The hard part about writing some of these scenes is that I have to keep in mind that EVERYONE is basically lying to everyone else all of the time, which makes the phrasing in a lot of the dialogue kind of obnoxiously important. But you'll get some answers, sort of, in the next chapter.

OOO


End file.
